Stories of the Season

treeI don’t totally deny the possible existence of gods and/or goddesses. I just don’t think they have anything much to do with human existence and believe that humanity’s attention needs to be on human activity to save each other and ourselves from the worst of our actions and inactions.  I think humans of any religious/spiritual persuasion would be better off forgetting about possible afterlives and thinking how to better the lifetime here and now.

So where does this leave me, a humanistic pagan with an inconveniently mystical series of life experiences at this “most wonderful time of the year”?  It leaves me with that tree there — the one with the tin “village” at its foot — nature towering over human dwellings and pursuits.  And every year, it leaves me missing Doris Lessing, now happily dead before she had to see America give into what has to be the worst idea of government ever — a fascist wrapped in the flag and claiming Christianity while living the life of a glutton.

I loved most of her books, but at this season, it is her one science fiction opus that comes to mind: Canopus in Argos: Archives.  In one of the five utterly masterfully incisive novels, she mentions “the feast of the Child” and her characters regretfully (and resentfully?) say of humans that “they have obviously forgotten the meaning of this.” She never explains this comment or what has been forgotten.  Lessing wrote with a sort of warm clarity, but there was always the sense, in these books in particular, that the reader needed to do some work themselves.

So, ever since I read the books, in the late ’70’s to mid ’80’s, every Christmas season when songs about the “babe in the manger” are so manifest in America, I have mused on what could have been forgotten.  In these novels, the earth is a petri-dish for powerful aliens trying to craft a perfect place for intelligent beings.  It is a petri-dish soiled and spoiled, and is called “Shikasta” – meaning “the broken one.”  Her “aliens” incarnate as humans to try to change our ways, our lives, our history.  Every one of them is born, a child, into human condition and risk.  A bit like Jesus, one might say.  Or Buddha.  Or Mithras.  Or … well, fill in the name of any “savior.”  Perhaps the point of a “feast of the child” was that every child should be a desired, chosen, planned for child that is welcomed into life with every intention of not letting it suffer cruelty or hunger, neglect or need?

If that was the forgotten bit, it certainly is utterly forgotten.  Almost every sect on the planet insists on every sexual act leading to procreation and every fertilization leading to the live birth of a child that may die of disease or hunger before it is old enough for school it may never get to attend!  In America, the government coming into power in January is all about not letting women decide if and when to bear a child; but they certainly dismiss the need to care for the children so forced upon those mothers.  They are happily disavowing any realistic need to examine how long the planet itself can endure our depredations to keep all of us alive.  So much for the sanctity of infantile life?

Today, our counselor asked us something about what our core value/being was made of – what gave the “why” to our lives.  My “why” has always been about creating the home I never had as a child:  secure from fleeing debt-collectors by night, free of hunger and meal-skipping, and open to friends in need.  No, I’ve not always succeeded, but I’ve not utterly failed either.  Almost everyone finds comfort here, but I often do not.  Because I can’t be in a comfort zone and still be secure in the knowledge that I am working for that “value” I espouse.  I will forever be stretching the personal envelope of contentment to worry about those I can’t quite reach.  In the process, especially now, I find myself wondering if I have forgotten how to be happy.

Is happiness possible in the world that seems to be beginning to die around us?  When children, those for whom a mythical feast was held, are bombed into bloody dust in Aleppo, is happiness possible?  Is happiness ethical?  I tell myself at this time of the year, to take a bit of relief in quite joys of a warm house and plentiful food with the purpose of nourishing myself for the fight ahead.  Every warrior must rest and recreate the will to fight?  Everyone needs to feed their souls, to fix their own “oxygen masks” before helping others.  But I admit, I feel overwhelmed.  There is so much need, and so little me.  And I have so little power.

trailIt is not cookies and candles and lights that make me feel the renewal of “fight”.  It is simplicity and innocence I see under increasing threat.  The line of snow on a dying cedar.  Feathers fallen around the feeder.  A hummingbird shivering under a warm light.  A set of footprints, not human, in the snow.  We humans may have finally irreversibly soiled out little experimental petri-dish.

We may really be in our final slow, agonizing, dragged out last chapters as a species?  I sometimes think, I may move into that realm of caring more what ELSE can survive instead of us.  We are animals, too, of course; although we certainly credit ourselves as rather more than that.  But I don’t see other species of beasts so intent on destruction.  And I see animals, everywhere, desperately protecting their young.  We throw ours away, calling them “men” at age 18 and sending them to the human sacrifice that is war.  Some “feast of the child” that is, eh?

Watch what stories you tell yourselves.  Where do those tales lead?  To some cream-cheese harp music pie in the sky?  Forget that.  Is the damage we do worth it?  All that we destroy for what we presume we inherit by dint of walking on two legs and proclaiming “Yay for our team!”  I’ll stay with another writer, thanks, Edna St. Vincent Millay – who skipped the line to “heaven” to pick a blue flag in a yet unburnt marsh.  But unlike her?  I will not turn back to that line to a promised elsewhere.  If my world is ashes, so will I be rather than be anywhere else.  So yes, I will kick your ass if you try screwing up my planet.

Happy Solstice.

Birthday Month -What She Would Wear

redriding-hood…if Little Red Riding Hood grew up to be a spy.  That is me, walking fast away from the photographer-husband, wearing my birthday present – a bright red trench coat with a voluminous hood.

In some ways, I was like Little Red Riding Hood.  I was always slipping off into the woods whenever I could and I was never afraid of meeting big bad wolves there.  I knew where they lived and it wasn’t the woods.  I always wondered why lecherous men got called “wolves” — they act far worse than any canine predator!

I did grow up to be a kind of spy.  I joined the Army and served behind the Berlin Wall using my hard-won Russian to delineate the threat from the Russians poised all around the city of West Berlin.  My military rain coat was a style of trench coat, too; but certainly not red.

This concludes my birthday month musings.  I’ve even bored myself!

The Descent/Ascent of Innana? Part One

Vertical Roses 1It is a popular myth – the Descent of Innana.  It has been interpreted again and again.  I’ve read the story, I’ve read the interpretations, I’ve even read some rather artful re-writes (like Vellum and Ink) of this tale.  They all intrigued and troubled me, like something quivering in my memory and consciousness and not ready to be born yet.  Innana, a goddess of love and sex and beauty, descends into the Underworld ruled by her sister.  She goes through seven gates (note the seven roses  to the left), sacrificing more of her power and self until she is hung (up to dry?) like a corpse.  She is rescued by loyal retainers, in the end — those she entrusted sufficiently.  She sacrifices her husband Damuzi to be freed from the land of the dead.

This myth and that picture have possessed me equally for the last five years.   Innana went to the land of the dead to increase her power.  She did not go, like Orpheus – to recover a lost love.  She was not the first deity “hung up” either – Odin hung nine days upon a tree for wisdom and the magic of runes.  She had the foresight to arrange her own retrieval.  Rank as a goddess has its privileges?

I’ve come to think, now that youth has fled and lonely sleepless nights without crying children no longer distract me, that all women do so descend.  We begin, perhaps goddess-like and yes, putting on mascara/heels/mini-skirts that say “Come, Men, come!”  Or for some of us, “Come, Women, come.”  We begin with a sense of power, a red of the “come and fuck me” variety that is so sure of itself, like that first glorious rose, with blood-hued thorns to back our game!  We take our first (high heeled?) step into love.  We are bold, we believe in our power and invincibility?  We never imagine love demands a sacrifice.

When does that vivid blossom that is “us”, “you”, or “me” first begin to fade?  With a few rejections under our belts?  Or a rape?  Or the rabid reaction of a rejected suitor?  I was tough, I went through a half dozen emotional/sexual entanglements and an abortion without losing a “crown” or a jewel of my self-confidence.  I married a man who plainly stated a month prior that I was not good enough for him — he had a bad case of “the perfect woman” going.  I was woman and ready to roar, sure I would win him over.

And I did.  But.  There is always a but, and that began to bleed the color from my petals.  Married, soon accidentally pregnant – we joked that I got knocked up from a hot look.  As rapidly not pregnant, again by accident — by “miscarriage’, the medical “spontaneous abortion” that meant any plans to have a family might not be as simple as choosing the proper time.  I was told to reproduce while young or risk never succeeding.  I didn’t want children yet, but my husband did. I didn’t want children at all, the world didn’t look fit for people I would love in excess of my own well-being.  But my timetable of if and/or when vanished into urgency.  Coral is a nice color, even if not red, right?

So, children — two in rapid succession.  My plans for a military career hit the rocks.  I had a supervisor who made my life hell, trying to force me out as he felt pregnant (or even married) women had no place in “his” Army.  We women were there for the fucking: married and pregnant chicks were not wanted!  The Army had a lot invested in my linguist/analyst self.  I had a lot invested in my analyst self!  I fought, I won — my supervisor was given the Army equal of a restraining order.

But I was exhausted and the Army itself bleached my dreams next.  They demanded a “parenting plan”… this was a new thing telling me we had to be ready to send our tender progeny to others so both of us simultaneously could be sent to dangerous places.  Neither of us liked our parents.  We didn’t like how we were raised.  I extended my first tour of duty, casting about for solutions or a change of military occupational specialty that might save me.

Every door that would be a solution slammed in my face.  So, they will save a parent’s last son from battle death — but will not consider saving even one of a child’s parents?  I felt so betrayed.  I felt sure if the Women’s Army Corps had not been disbanded and handed to the Regular Army like a gift wrapped present, this never would have been what happened to my career.  My husband was older and had more rank and time in grade.  I left the military and found myself blush pink with dismay at my sudden financial dependency.

The pink faded fast, into ashes of roses in rain.  In “dependent quarters” with other wives for neighbors, I was a bit of a pariah — being a former female soldier, I was told I was “that whore our husbands fuck.”  So much for female solidarity.  I took jobs.  I worked at post libraries, I was a newspaper editor.  An unexpected third pregnancy ended that job, as my fragile (now) middle child came apart on the baby’s birth.  She stole, she lied, she went full-on Electra on her baffled father, she tried to kill her infant brother.  In the newspaper I wrote an article asking why child care workers were paid so poorly.  I was told by the publisher to retract the article. I refused and was told it would not be published, I quit and went home to tend my aching breasts, my troubled daughter, and my delightful surprise baby.  I was not the frightened new mother, I was almost ready to think that life in black and white was better than those splashy colors.  Because motherhood was so much more fun this time, not juggling jobs and other things.

But I really feared the color of hope had bled out of my life when I attempted to use my GI Bill — I had to hurry by the time I got my kids in school.  The Viet Nam Era version said you had ten years after the end term of service.  I had barely three years left to get my Batchelor’s degree.  I applied credits for Army language school, and for EMT training and odd classes grabbed here and there.  I got my Associates degree in one year, “challenging” classes like mad — paying and taking the final for winner take all grades.

But then my husband left the military.  Civilian life was a real shock to his PTSD’d self.  We suddenly needed two really good cars, he needed thou$ands in suits, ties, and civilian shoes.  My daughter was having her school call me several times a day; she would pee her pants rather than stay in school.  Counselors refused to believe there was a problem, we were good parents they said – it would wear off.  But the phone kept ringing.

I rebelliously and resolvedly bought my 22 books for my first semester at Evergreen State University.  I attended my first week of classes.  One of my professors, during an “uptake” interview, after discussing my military time, told me what a “sexy image” it was to think of me leaving the firing range to breast-feed my first son on my lunch break.  I was appalled.  Then they said every other week, there would be no class — that was for research and homework.  In places like libraries in San Francisco.  

My good gods.  Who the hell did they think their students were?  I could barely cover tuition and books with my GI Bill, it had no stipends then.  Childcare came out of a shrunken household budget from my husband’s check.  I got a part time job.  I did volunteer work on weekends.  I was definitely white with exhaustion from ‘having it all’.  And I was in the ER with angina three times in one week.  The doctor signed my “let her go before she dies” order.  The school gave back the GI Bill money so Uncle Sam wouldn’t come after my impoverished, ventricular tachycardia-ing self.  I went home, again.

I had a nervous break-down; my world turned black.  I got up in the morning and made lunches and put kids on buses.  I laid back down in my bed and stared at the ceiling all day long.  I wept.  I would never have a college degree.  I would be financially dependent on a man.  I was ashamed.  I got up  and made dinner on auto-pilot and went back to bed.  My husband didn’t seem to notice.  My kids thought running riot was great.  It took me six months to ascend to the ‘new normal’.  I became functional, but the only red in my life was occasional flashes of fury and rage.  I dressed in black for the consistency.

We remodeled the house.  A ladder broke under me as I worked, dropping me and blowing four of my seven cervical disks out of place in my spine and breaking a rib.  My doctor told me my “rib wasn’t broke, silly girl, and that neck pain is ’cause you carry to much tension in your neck.”  I argued for three years, only after finishing the house job.  My rib would snap and re-break, making me run to the bathroom to vomit in pain and nausea.  But we finished, it was lovely.  It was six months before my exhaustion and depression lifted enough to notice the improvements all actually worked.

I had two spinal surgeries to fuse my neck so I could keep use of my left arm and hand.  I fired my doctor and did without one for about ten years.  I tried a female doctor.  She told me I was “obese” because I weighed 15 pounds more than I did at age 20 when I joined the Army.  Everything, she said, was my own fault for being “an obese American.”  I told her off and left her office.  It was five more years before I sought medical care again.

In the meanwhile, my husband’s PTSD was devouring him.  In 2011 it erupted like the Minoan island of Thera — swamping every bit of our life in hot ashes and tidal waves of emotional chaos.

How much could I keep sacrificing on love’s altar?  Me, the “polydeist pagan” who never even thought about Aphrodite — or Innana?  I was Athena’s and Hekate’s and wanting to run in the woods like Artemis.  What did I believe?  I believed in humanity.  I was a feminist, but not one that would throw a wounded man under the bus for my own pleasure and peace.

So, I retreated, alas not gracefully, to a smaller building on our property.  I barricaded my battered black heart (of innocence?) if not my door.  My husband, who had wanted to be “free as at 18” was shattered by my decamping.  (Note: at 18 he was on his way to Viet Nam with a death wish, scarcely “free.”)  He had a habit of asking for one thing, but inarticulately wanting something completely different.  But I wasn’t concerned with what he wanted, just then.  I was in trouble.  I wanted to run and far and fast.  And there was no place to go.

I was an analyst.  So I analyzed my situation.  I woke in the morning, fed and freed the pet ferrets, who loved the new digs with no doors – just one big crazy room.  I drank coffee, I read.  I stayed up all night and ate midnight mac and cheese.  I ritually burned copies of my marriage certificate.  I sold my wedding bands and bought black leather boots.  I cried.  I laughed.  I shouted and threw things.  I did arts and crafts to send to friends.  I did Netflix binges lasting weeks.  I practiced magical arts.  I let the gardens die, except the roses.

And my back hurt.  Yes, definitely feeling that meat hook through the spine between my shoulders.  I passed, naive and honest, through gates of loss – leaving my own blood on every thorn along the way.  I forgot to tell anyone to come save me.  I am not a goddess, damn it.  A bit more like Odin — I was hanging and nobody else was coming for taking me down.

Part Two of this “entirely too much information” post soon.  But yes, this “Innana” WILL ascend.