Rosa

The Goddess

Photo by Edward Howell

Rosa. 

 I am but one rose among many. 
Each petal,  a story of a life. 
Red tips, yellow floral cups.

Curled, crafted, 
handiwork of invisible Gods & Goddesses.
The name Gods feels more akin to soul then Goddess. 
How did that happen?

The light brought forth by the sun, the soil, the waters, the wind. 
Settled upon the shelf made by the woods, 
beneath the gray crow feather, 
near a ceramic relic of lost eros—-love. 

A thread of red rose bushes,
in the distance, vanished, unbecoming, awake, alive
in the growing ivy creeping a song of hope. 

Goddess, let her slide upon the tongue. 

Throw the towel on the floor, 
spill the milk, slip on the rug, slurp the water,
burn the dresser, break glass, all the while barreling into the dark abyss
toes lifted, dancing around, 
make a mess you beautiful
feral woman. 

While I was writing this poem, I felt a tinge of disdain as I wrote the word "Goddess." This made me pause my breath for a moment to ponder why this could be. God felt more rigorous, austere, intellectual, and serious. Goddess felt flighty, cheapened, commodified—- internalized Patriarchy.

Perhaps it was all the times I heard men in my early years calling one another “pussy,” as if, to have a pussy meant to be weak, helpless, small, unimportant. Invisible. They said it like I wasn’t there. Like, I didn’t have a pussy.

These men are the same ones who, as sensitive little boys, were told not to cry, to suck it up, to be strong, never to feel anything. I know because I watched it happen to my younger brother. I saw him bullied out of his deep feelings and sensitivity.

As I stayed with this meandering, many memories poured into my psyche. There was the image of the male pastor standing at the podium, Bible in hand. I walked through the Church doors to see this image thousands of times. And yet those men on the podium lived deeply tortured lives in secret—the power they conveyed was a mask to immaturity and powerlessness deep beneath the outer performance of strength.

During a council meeting with the Animas Valley Institute, I saw the crow in the distance, where one of our guides read Tom Hiron’s Wild Gods poem aloud. I love that poem, and I do love God, and I love men.

I revere the word God. I’ve devoted much of my heart and life to studying Mystical Christianity. And I appreciate and value the many men in my life: my mentors, the men who work with me in my clinical practice, and the dear lovers and friends of my soul in male bodies. The word God holds a power in my heart that will always be here. 

Yet, Goddess. The Goddess. I notice a craving for her deep beneath my belly. 

These days, I see her images scattered along Instagram posts. The re-awakening of Mary Magdalene, nearly naked women posed toward the camera in their utter beauty and sensuality. I hold the reverberations of conversations with girlfriends about these Instagram reels, posts, stories. 

“To be an awakened woman, do I need to open my legs, exposing my pussy to the camera for the world to see?” Is this the representation of the Goddess? If so, why does it feel reminiscent of pornography in my body? Why does it still linger with a sense of feeling objectified in my heart?”

Where is the place for the curves and shape of the Goddess to reveal herself?

One time, on a Vision Quest, I remember my naked body exposed in the sun’s light, alone, lying upon the edge of the laughing waters in Aravaipa in prayer, ritual, and worship. There was no one to see, but the cottonwoods and the singing crows above me. 

Another time, I sang clothless in the middle of a circle of women. One hand touched the earth, the other reached toward the heavens, and a melody rang through the canyon walls from my heart, touching the other woman's ears surrounding me. These were secret moments. I watched women fall, cry, and rage in a fire ceremony beneath the moon. Their emotions were uninhibited; their messy hearts were vulnerable to the wind. This felt like a moment of the Goddess alive, electrifying our female beauty. There were no cameras or snapshots. No one could witness us but one another and the bright, luminous planets and stars above. There was nothing to be sold or bought. 

But how can we bring her into the middle world? Into the everyday world? Who is she there, and how do we not make her into a commodity or another consumption of pornography?

The Goddess is human and beyond human. She is, light, earth, the elements, a force of love beyond what is known.  

As Christians, we have secretly worshiped her through the love of Mary, Jesus' mother, or Mary Magdalene, his long-forgotten lover. 

At midnight, I read books to try to find her: 

The Return of the Divine Sophia: Healing the Earth through the Lost Wisdom by Tricia McCannon

Mary Magdalene Mysteries by Azra & Seren Bertrand

The Alphabet & the Goddess by Leonard Schlain

Sacred Pleasure by Riane Eisler.

When I dream, I seek her and see her. She slithers her body into the tops of industrial warehouses; she consumes me through the black bear, and howls with Wolven eyes in old mansions and suburban homes. She floods the floors of hotels, and sweeps me up into the sea.

Mystery upon mystery. 

Rosa. Goddess. 

I long for her; I search, in my vulnerability, unknowing, unbecoming, unraveling, through my messy, uncontained, untamed, undomesticated, and feral heart.

And I long for her while also longing for God. True God. The Sacred Masculine.

I feel the pressure men have carried under Patriarchy not to feel, not to be sensitive, to hold more power than is healthy for any human person. I feel the grief and sensual beauty of the women beneath their facades of cruelty and coldness, or over-kindness and flattery.

I search for the fire in the soul of the Goddess and God.

I wait for the moment when their names, God and Goddess, ring with the delight of true love.