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As
I was leafing through my old writings, I happened upon a series of prose
pieces that I had originally written for the (currently in hiatus) pagan
magazine, Crescent. The editors embarked on the ambitious project of
compiling an alphabet of Goddesses. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? However,
they paired each Goddess with a word that began with the same letter,
yet still exemplified the personality of the Goddess. After creating the
Goddess/word list, the editors farmed out the goddesses to various
writers with the understanding that the writers would expand on the
relationship between the Goddess and the word. The editors gave no other
directions, allowing the writers to create as the moment, as the
Goddess, as the sweetness of death, and boisterousness of life moved
them. These are the five Goddess/words that I created. May you gain
insight and understanding from them. May you be moved to lay pen to
paper and create with your own Goddesses and your own Gods.
Kindred/Kunhild
Vampires
and Anne of Green Gables. Blood-sucking and spirit-bonding. Being
kindred, being connected is messy. Bodily fluids are exchanged. Souls
are swapped. And you come back to your own body completely the same and
entirely new. There is something dark about being kindred, something
primitive and feral. It goes far deeper than family and friends. Far
deeper even than lovers and sons and daughters.
Despite
this baseness at the core of kindred thoughts and kindred feelings, it
is hard not to rejoice when caught in kindred’s embrace. The heart
beats for many and the lungs breathe for all. You are inside and outside
your body at the same time, more alive and dead and living and dying
than you have ever been before. Or shall ever be after. It matters not
whether you are kindred for a long time or a short time. It affects you
the same. Your soul has been touched by another and the world has become
a far different place.
Navigate/Nimue
She
moves graceful as the waters and silent as the moon. You know her.
She’s the one who negotiates a crowded cocktail party with a plateful
of shrimp and a glass of red wine and never spills a drop. She’s the
one who waltzes around the room and never steps on her partner’s toes.
She’s the one who plots and plans the course of the day or the week or
the month while smiling and never breaking a sweat. “All ahead. Full
engines.” Not an iceberg in sight.
And
we trust her to guide us. Blindly. Faithfully. With no references or
background checks, we hand her the keys to our lives. We go about our
daily tasks: work, school, groceries, laundry, trash. We repeat the
cycle day after day and the water is clear and the boat gently rocks us
to sleep at night. But the day comes when a storm arrives, buffeting our
fragile defenses and bruised emotions. The ship capsizes and still we
trust. We know deep in our hearts that she is there and she will show us
the way. Either to the weedy shoreline or to the trip eternal. We are
not afraid. We know we shall meet her on the sandy shore or in the
Summerland. We shall feel the gentle pressure of her hand on the small
of our backs as we encounter the next beginning.
Race/Rhiannon
We
move from one place to another, from one event to another. From lover to
friend to enemy and back again. Quickly, quickly, with barely time to
breathe, we race to and fro. Tiny lab mice in the experiment of life, we
move obstacles, seek the center, find the cheese. We do not think but
simply act, on instinct, hurrying, hurrying. “No time to say ‘Hello,
Goodbye,’” – We’re late, we’re late, we’re late! For what
exactly? Goals are fleeting. Material objects molder and turn to dust.
Appointments come and appointments go. We race to win, to fill our
concept of time, to gather, to create. Yet, the more we race, the less
we win. Those lucky few who never leave the starting blocks do not need
to run and puff and scratch and claw to return. They are already there.
The
autumn leaves on the trees turn red and orange and yellow. Sometimes the
foliage appears the second week of October, sometimes the third week.
Yet the season arrives, never-the-less. Snow welcomes the onslaught of
winter as early as Thanksgiving Day and as late as January 1st. The
proper time is different every year. Still, we know the clouds will open
and snow flakes will drift down from above. Nature does not race and
stress and worry if the leaves are a week late or the first snow is too
early. Everything has its time. If not now, then later.
Torrent/Tempestates
The
deluge soaks us. Tree limbs fly. Grasses flatten and the house quakes. A
pop, a flash and we are plunged into darkness with the whipping wind and
the pounding rain. We are flattened against the wall, against the bed,
with the sheer power of the torrent. We can not move. We gasp for
breath, our lungs barely working. Hands, once strong and vital, become
useless blocks of ice. From the center of our being, we catch a glimpse
of light, some warmth. Barely a flicker, it sustains us through the
battering, through the beating. We cup our hands around the small center
and protect it the very best we can. And we fall asleep, scared and
tired.
In
the morning, it is as if it were a dream. Blue sky shines from above.
Dew droplets form on blades of grass and on petals of flowers. Some
blossoms are ripped from their stalks and lie strewn across the yard.
Tree branches form an irregular pile near the driveway. The lone patio
chair, left outside, forgotten, is lost forever. But the birds are
singing and the sun is shining. All that was unnecessary has been wiped
away. Wiped away clean. We assess our lives, amid the debris. We uncover
the center of light and warmth within ourselves. It is whole. It spreads
throughout our bodies and we know that only now can we start fresh. Only
now can we start anew.
Valiant/Valkyries
We
all know right from wrong, light from dark. Or do we? We say we do; we
profess our innocence, our sincerity, our loyalty. We clothe ourselves
in the trappings of honor. Our shield is humility. Our helm,
righteousness. We kneel before the king, offering our sword and
ourselves in the battle against darkness. But, do we really know? Or are
all the breastplates and swords and shields merely for show? Those who
are valiant do nothing for show. Loyalty, honor, righteousness live
inside of them. They have ingested these values with their morning corn
flakes, winding them into the cells of their stomachs and intestines and
heads and hearts. Every act, every word, every deed drips with courage.
They are noble to the core.
But
it is a hard life, being valiant, being true, being right. The truth is
not always welcomed. Surface connection is prized. What have you done
for me lately? What will you do for me now? Staying true to oneself is
not easy in the modern era. Darkness is not obvious. The feudal baron
and the vengeful dragon have disappeared. In their places are people.
Just people. Lost. Found. Searching. To be valiant, we must share our
goodness. We must drive out the self-hate and loathing and blackness in
these people. And, in the end, we will die. Alone, with no parties or
celebrations. But the valiant know they have changed the world a little
bit and that is all that matters.
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