Tag Archives: goddess

No Big Mystery

20 Thursday Apr 2017

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People are making a big deal that a female tennis star won a grand slam title while she was pregnant.  I say, so what?  Her body is doing what it’s supposed to be doing, and if you really want to impress me, let’s see her play in the men’s division–and win!

Look, we really need to stop putting women on pedestals just because they have babies.  It’s just what nature chose, the luck of the draw. Like seahorses, the males carry the eggs in their pouches, nobody makes a big deal about their fatherhood. They’re just doing what nature gave them.

So women, just stop with making women hallowed, blessed, saintly, goddess things just because they carry around babies and breast feed and work jobs. So what? Your body does all the work, it’s not like you have anything to do with it.  Feed yourselves good food, read up on parenting, call your mom when you get in a bind, and take care of the kid that you put in this world. This is not a big deal, people.  It’s been going on since the dawn of time.

Women have babies, men do not. It’s just that simple.  Men and women are not equal, never will be.  So raise your boys to be boys and girls to be girls, as God intended. If more people would just follow nature and not make such a big deal of things, it would take such a burden from all our shoulders. A collective sigh the country could breathe. Ten fingers and ten toes are all the blessings anyone could ever need, and it’s time we got back to thinking like real women and men.

Is That All You Got?

04 Monday Jan 2016

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Did I actually brew some kind of mystical, magical, improbable, miracle of thing called “kid” inside me, one that fluttered every time I drank a vanilla shake, or rearranged the walls of my ribs?  Was I the master-keeper of the organs of life, nursing, nurturing, and winging it, clueless with a book and a prayer (and a whole lotta leaning on the neighbors downstairs?)  Oh yeah; got the scars to prove it, and a husband that might still be traumatized by the event.

Was that me on the bed that very first time, lying back in secluded daylight, fingertips teaching that place that only seemed to resonate when I scanned the acres of posters on my walls of a man with coffee eyes, long, bronze hair, thick hands grasping a microphone, quadriceps-bursting blue jeans, who air-raid alarmed me or growled esoteric poetry, expiring me with inhaled breaths I’d never breathed before?

Was that me holding your hand? Was I really there watching you work so hard to breathe such little breaths, fighting to keep life in your cold fingers, stone calves, your words and wants and needs unknown, then walking away from us and I never knew if you were afraid and if we did everything we should have, knowing I should have been there better for you, man with a weak voice but stubborn to the end?

Was that me, holding horse, flowing through the pain with fierce determination, refusal to fail, and a few laughs between the minutes on the clock face, knowing there would be no other outcome but 45 minutes of thigh-erupting shaking pain, breath, flow, and some joy in accomplishment at the conclusion of the clock, new sash in hand, and probably not as much respect we hoped to gain from the master, but it was more than we had when we first walked in?  Was that me, finally believing you, that the whole world wasn’t trying to hurt me?

Was that me, naked in New Jersey waves watching sunrise bleed through the layered veils of black sky, diamond stars having the sense to bow out and leave, unlike my heart that never knew why?  La Mar heard confessions and tears, prayers, supplications and said scornfully, “Is that all you got?” So I drove home, some kind of empty pen.  Was that me, I ask, every morning, again?

I am woman, therefore weak, because I’d been beaten, defeated.  Look at what remains.  Woman can be strong if she trains herself against the world, girds herself against weakness, builds walls and turns her back on happiness–it’s safer that way. She will survive and attain anything she wants as long as she is armored and angry and calls the shots.  But has she the tools to survive the onslaught of life, the harrowing, the sorrow, the fleeting joy (how can it last?)  because she is woman? Warrior, strong, because she is no tender reed who bends in the wind, but rooted like omnipotent, arm-stretching oak!  But what about all the rest who carried, who came, who held, who lost, who forget all the strength she had–and will have again–because she is woman who sheds and cries and loses and grieves and gives and receives? Who dares love? What prayer for her, what talisman, what happy ending could she ever write?

Goddess, creator, destroyer, survivor, call down your gales; I’m not afraid of your pantheon!  I do not know where I am going, and still do cry because I cannot undo all that I wrought, but with your help I will get there, one way and the other. I suppose I will never dehydrate for lack of tears to drink, but I will never lose because when I yield I cannot break.

You Brought It On Yourself

15 Tuesday Dec 2015

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Oh, what, excuse me? You want me to love you?

I’ve got the usual world around me, and I’ve got this other softer, secret, sacred world around me, the one where I write. I deal with the outer world best I can, and I create in this inner world better, and then there’s you (said with disdain.)

You come flying down the hall, leap into my lap unexpectedly, push off my thigh with your claws and squeeze between the monitor and the desk cubby so you can sit at the window beyond so you can do whatever while I rub my thigh where the skin starts to swell and itch, that is how allergic I am to  you.  I wish you weren’t here.

You are currently sprawled across the left side of my desk, on papers, next to notebooks, calendars, and my dad’s journal.  You do the same thing all the time, your back feet pushing away my favored pictures and knickknacks so you can have more room.  You are Sphinx, paws before you, looking at me softly, saying nothing at all, but it is still a challenge, those green-yellow eyes and gray paws next to my keyboard your body saying “Touch me, stroke me, love me, I dare you.”  But I don’t touch you, you horrible gray thing who sits quietly on top of papers in my office that I did not invite.  If I touch you, you will think I like you, acquiesce to your need, you get what you want, just like everyone else who gets what they need from me just because they are near, they smile, they ask in a sweet way. Fuck you! Get off my fucking desk, I did not invite you into my world, my place, and I have to leave my office to hit the bathroom because it’s that early morning 18 cups of coffee thing I have to relieve, and when I come back you are still there but no longer looking at me but sprawled on your side on top of my papers.   At least I don’t have to touch your paws and make nice with you, but I still can’t stand the fact that you are here, leaving your hairs everywhere and the throb of your claws in my leg has not subsided.

You crawl on top of me in bed when I turn out the lights exhausted, between my legs, 20 pounds of you alighting on my bladder, abdomen, ribs, face, making your home in my hair and my pillow. You are not happy until you knead my head and hair for ten minutes, then you go back to the end of the bed where my feet should be, but I can’t sleep straight because you’re in the way.  You puke on my expensive quilt covered in seashells and starfish or shit on it because  you hate your litter box, and you expect me to love you and pet you and endure you and your 99 problems.

I suppose God has the same feelings as I do right now towards humanity.  I made you, you are in my life, you’ve got issues you needy things who tear each other apart and this world that I created and now you want me to love you? They look up towards me with their green-yellow eyes curled up on their sides immersed in bad dreams, hoping for solace in between the heartbeats of their lives, but no, I hate you, I am angry with the shit you leave all around, and I hate myself for the hate you make me feel in the morning when I should feel agape and speechless at the color of morning, and the birds and the memory of the stars I left behind.

How hard it is for me, this goddess, to love the things that hurt me every day (or the goddess who suffers the hurts you gave me these 18 and 20 years.)  I know for the most part they don’t mean to hurt me but they do.  How hard is it for me, this goddess, to return love and patience to creatures who don’t understand me.  Soft, gentle, needy beings, feline or human who deserve love, in all their imperfections.  Goddess, do you need to bend to love the imperfect things that love you, or is it enough to be, and accept those that love you alone.

Oh Goddess would it kill you to acquiesce, renounce anger, show compassion and stroke the grey cat who reclines on your papers and needs just a little bit of love; breathe and listen to those imperfect humans who inhabit your world and listen to them, be merciful and kind instead of offering them your harpy nature and hanging up on them?

Addendum:  1/5/2006.  I’ve made the effort to pet the cat in the morning as she’s curled up on the bed, or greet her with a pet at night when I come home.  There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Showing just a little love in a hateful world?  All it takes is one small act, one pebble tossed into the lake.