A lovin’ coven…a pack of wild women…or a kaleidoscope

We came together under a waning crescent moon, symbol of the wisdom of the crone: a wisdom hard earned and hard learned. The golden hour of evening fluttered, coloring the scene Autumn. Tonight was our Samhain/Dia de los Muertos celebration.

I stepped out of my car, uneasy. I only knew a few of these women. Would this be like a re-run of the 1970’s “Mean Girls with Farrah Hair Laugh at the Tall Weird Girl?” I looked over the crowd…no Farrah hair, no Jordache jeans, and thank the Goddess, no fucking pom poms.

Today I was the Völva, my own fierce version, covered in runes of protection and symbols signifying I was a magical being. I tacked on my fringed veil and placed the antlers on my head. Already I felt safer. Then I grabbed my staff…my masterpiece. One of my talents is that I find bones. I don’t necessarily go out of my way looking for them. I just seem to run across the most perfectly bleached bones while I’m walking my dogs. And this was a perfect wild pig skull. The Universe nodding her head then gave me a perfect branch, almost six feet tall, angled at the top. This staff was designed by Gaia and glued by epoxy.

According to many sources, the Völva was a seeress, a female practitioners of Seidr. The name actually means staff-carrier so the staff inspired the entire “costume.” The blood of Vikings and Germanic Heathens – powerful pagan women – ran through my blood. I’d always known it but in the last few years I was remembering.

A few years ago I took part in a guided meditation to commune with my feminine ancestors on Mother’s Day. In my vision I found myself surrounded by a circle of women – all sorts, all ages. One in a red dress, dancing and spinning. Several swathed in furs, casting bones. The older women draped furs over my shoulder, warming me. They held me in love…pressing small divination bones into my hands, whispering comforting words I didn’t understand. (and until this very moment as I write this, I didn’t realize the theme of bones that seems to repeat).

And today I was again surrounded by a wild array of women. La Catrinas danced to Nancy Sinatra. A mermaid gracefully swam by to her music. A crystal princess presented me with a magical stone while a lovely witch read my cards. Laughter, the song of the Goddess Iambe, tinkled like windchimes. A group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope… and that is the most appropriate term I could imagine for this gathering of Divine Feminine Forces…a kaleidoscope of feminine energy and color.

The evening grew to night and we danced, ate, and laughed, joining our energies together in a way only women can. Monarchs travel alone but in the evenings they rest together, clustering in roosts to stay warm. Anybody who has ever encountered hundreds or thousands of butterflies dancing together on the wind will never forget the experience. Samhain Eve was like that. Clustered together, my kaleidoscope of swirling, dancing sisters warming each other for the long journey ahead is a memory I will never forget.

Lesson Two: $2.49 Mussels

I rolled my forehead on the cool bathroom floor. I breathed, trying to calm the violent nausea. After throwing up for three hours, I decided I could do nothing more than wait.  I knew that regardless of the ending, this would not go on forever.

Sometimes you have to accept that your body is in pain, but you don’t have to identify with that pain…accept your body is aging, but not identify with the aging body.  Sometimes you just have to accept imperfections, but recognize you are more.

 

“You are imperfect, you are wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging.”
― Brené Brown

 

Seems more than coincidence that earlier that day, I’d lit my sage smudge and with a feeling of perfect peace, smudged myself.  I still felt a barrier, an old resentment to which I kept returning. I knew it was time to move on but something around my heart felt like a burnt-out light bulb. So I smudged myself prayerfully and went to the kitchen to fix those delicious $2.49 mussels I’d found on sale along with a light gluten free pasta pesto dish. I watched a short segment on Gaia TV enjoying my delightfully inexpensive supper.  A few hours later, I asked Barry to just bring a pillow to the bathroom for me.

That was Sunday night. I’m writing this Friday night and I still don’t feel 100% right physically.  BUT throughout this whole thing, I’ve felt peace. I think I vomited up a piece of resentment.

 

Finally letting go of those things I cannot change..

So what is my point? There is always another obstacle. There is always a problem to overcome, a friendship that is lost, a body that ages…there’s always a resentment to release or a fear to face.

Life is like a sit-com series – it opens with laughs then a conflict arises. By the end of the show, the situation is resolved and more laughter erupts.  A week later you do the whole thing all over again. Sometimes you get a break during re-run season but usually there’s always another episode. And it’s ok…because all that stuff happening is kinda the whole point.

A dear friend sent me the following meme after she patiently listened to my constant yammering for the past few months. I think this beautifully sums up the Lesson of the Mussels.

 

 

 

 

Ugly Truth

 

Warning – I’m going to share about rape, and fear, and being a woman in 2017.

 

My fear of vulnerability and fear of tears have made me hesitant to write the following. Honestly, I have rarely ever even discussed it.  But now is the time for these stories to emerge. Sadly, if you’re a woman, the odds are very high that you have experienced some form of sexual assault.*

Once upon a time, my friend (we’ll call him Chucky) had a party at his apartment. Chucky and I were buddies. He was one of those guys you thought you could trust. You probably had a male friend like that in school.  He never came onto me – never touched me inappropriately or even made “those” kind of jokes.  I trusted him.  So as Van Halen blared on the stereo,  I felt perfectly safe slamming golden shots of tequila at his kitchen table.

As the music grew louder and the night grew later, we decided a game of quarters was a good idea. I vaguely remember the room swimming as I aimed my body for the door, trying to go home.  I fell down the first flight of stairs, staggered across the landing and rolled the rest of the way into the shrubs.  I also remember friends laughing, dragging me back up the stairs.

“Chucky, can’t she just sleep it off here?” My friends all trusted him as well. He’d never been anything but a perfect gentleman. And Chucky agreed, “Just put her on my bed. She’s close to the bathroom that way. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Darkness…

When I woke up, it was still dark but he was on top of me, grunting, wiggling…raping me.  I was so dizzy…I couldn’t even fight. I couldn’t even roll away or push him off…I was trapped under his animal musk and groans. I couldn’t even cry.

then more darkness…

Later I woke again…silently… I didn’t make any accusations. I felt so ashamed, so sick. I pulled my pants on and left.

I tried to tell someone. This woman I loved and trusted told me it was my own fault…that I was a drunken slut.  I tried to tell someone else, but she warned me that it would be a waste of time to go to the police. I wasn’t really raped if I was in his bed drunk.

I dropped it. I even continued my friendship with Chucky on a superficial level. I never mentioned it to him.  I did stupid little childish things to get even – ping pong balls in his gas tank, threatening notes on his door…but I couldn’t go on…so I left school, left town, left the state, joined the Army.

I was never the same …never ever the same…

you know all those situations that frighten you as a woman…the drunk in the parking lot of the local bar demanding sex because he bought you a drink, men brushing up against you too closely, breathing into your neck, strangers staring at your ass…being grabbed, being fondled…

these things terrified me. So I just acted tougher…

Once you’ve been assaulted, you never feel safe again.  I still find myself holding my breath in certain situations…unable to find my voice…

I’m 50 years old – not a hot, young, sexy babe – still I can’t even run down the side of the highway without mace or a dog or both…because I’ve been followed and stalked. Because for some reason, my sweaty body conveys I want to get laid. “Hey baby”, cat calls, honking…just a few weeks ago, one man in a white van actually did three u-turns to follow me. It was obvious enough a neighbor driving by noticed and stopped to check on me.

I recently read one of the most moving essays I’d ever read “Becoming Ugly.”  I do not try to be beautiful. I do not fix my hair, color my cheeks and nails, because I do not want to be beautiful. I want to be strong…because so often I’m afraid.

AND there is more…

Our bodies and souls are breached…

Our strength is ripped from us as girls when we are told we are not smart enough….as women when we are paid less…when we are told our blood is dirty and our bodies are weak…we are told that we are original sin…

and when we speak…when we finally clear our throats, take that breath, and speak out, we are again slapped down…and this time not just by the men who would harm us, but by our own sisters.

And each time, it takes longer for our voices to regain volume..and each time it becomes that much harder to rise again..

But we WILL rise again. TOGETHER we will find our voices, and TOGETHER we will run down the highway fearlessly someday.

 

*Nearly one in five women surveyed said they had been raped or had experienced an attempted rape at some point, and one in four reported having been beaten by an intimate partner.  www.nytimes.com/2011/…/nearly-1-in-5-women-in-us-survey-report-sexual–assault.htm.