Scarlet Words—How Women’s History and Power Was (partly) Stolen by Changing the Language

 

Ishtar--Queen of Heaven/Whore of Babylon

Ishtar–Queen of Heaven/Whore of Babylon

The other day I woke from an undifferentiated dream with the words, “verbs, nouns, and scarlet adjectives” in my head. When I considered this word cluster, after a cup of coffee, I determined that its key word was “scarlet.” I pondered the word “scarlet” over the next few days. My train of thought, Google, and most importantly The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets by Barbara Walker all reminded me of an enormous cover-up perpetrated by the Judeo-Christian patriarchy.

Not to put too fine a point on it.

Scarlet. I asked myself, and several other people, what that word conjures. Literally everyone said either The Scarlet Letter or “a scarlet woman” or both. Scarlet + woman = fall from grace, shame, sin. In other words, whore, harlot, hussy, slut. The original scarlet woman, it turns out, was the woman who has come down to us as the Whore of Babylon. In Revelations, chapter 17, we are told just how horrific this woman (spoken with dripping scorn and indignant rage) was. A few choice quotations:

  • “Come hither. I will shew unto thee the judgment of the great whore that sitteth upon many waters with whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication, and the inhabitants of the earth have been made drunk with the wine of her fornication….”
  • And shortly thereafter: “I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet coloured beast, full of names of blasphemy…. And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup … full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication.”
  • And last but not least: “And upon her forehead was a name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH.”

But let’s back up a bit.  Like 3 or 4 thousand years. Harlot, the word so contemptuously used by the writers of the Book of Revelation in the Old Testament, was originally the name for the sacred priestesses who served the Great Goddess Har, also known as Ishtar. From the word “har” came other words, such as “hara,” a Hebrew word for great mountain or pregnant belly, and Harmonia, a daughter of Aphrodite and bringer of peace. The Greek “horae,” the Persian “houris,” or the Hebrew “hor” (“synonym for the sacred prostitute and the Goddess she served”*) are all etymologically linked to the word “whore.” But the fact is, sacred “harlots,” and priestesses of the goddess Har, or Ishtar, were powerful and honored, in fact revered, members of pagan societies.

Pagan priestess in full possession of her power and her sexuality.

Pagan priestess in full possession of her power and her sexuality.

Words that mean one thing for thousands of years: co-opted and degraded in a matter of a few hundred years by one male-dominated institution.

Let me continue. The scarlet woman—often seen wearing the red (and/or purple) of divinity—was first of all the great Ishtar, aka Queen of Heaven aka the Great Whore of Babylon. She called herself “a prostitute compassionate” and she and her priestess harlots were “honored like queens at centers of learning in Greece and Asia minor.” Despite her reverenced position throughout the ancient world, she comes to us via the Bible as “the mother of abominations,” among other things.

Some of these priestess-whores actually did become queens. Justinian’s bride, Theodora, was a temple harlot before she said, “I do.” The Emperor Constantine’s very own mother, now canonized (St. Helena), was a harlot before she became an empress/saint. Gosh why don’t Western histories tell us this stuff?

Priestess-whore/divine feminine

Priestess-whore/divine feminine

So, countless ancient yet sophisticated cultures including the Egyptians, Babylonians, Greeks, Persians, Hindus, Japanese—all revered women whose lives were spent in temples, as hierodules (representing the goddess on earth) having sex with men (often priests), who were honored as healers (their vaginal secretions and spit were said to have healing powers), and who were valued as brides when their service in the temple was over. Very, very cool.

That was back when sex was not a sin, women were not only allowed to be sexual beings but adored for their sexual powers, and when “virgin” meant unmarried woman. You’ve probably heard of the “Vestal virgins?” Well what you were not told is that most if not all the priestesses who looked after temples were virgins. Meaning they chose to remain unmarried. And have as much sex as they wanted in their roles as priestess-virgins.

Now, of course a “whore” is a term of degradation and contempt. Young women are hog-tied by the idea that “virgin” means “girl who does not have sex” instead of independent woman who is allowed to make her own sexual choices. Rethinking the mother of Jesus—we were told she was a virgin when her womb quickened with humankind’s savior. Well, according to the meaning of “virgin” at the time (aka the original meaning of that word), that meant she was not married. It did not mean she had not had sex.

How did this complete co-opting of language (nouns, verbs and scarlet adjectives) happen? Easy. The rise of the Christian church put the kibosh on anything that smacked of feminine power. Whores held significant status in pagan culture, so they had to be brought low. Powerful and influential men literally stole the truth, rewrote history, and at a time when literacy was low and there was soon a church in every village, the redirection of language was achieved efficiently and brutally.

Typical example. The horae of Aphrodite—her “celestial nymphs, who performed the Dances of the Hours, acted as midwives to the gods, and inspired earthly horae (harlot-priestesses) to train men in the sexual mysteries”*—were magically transformed by the church into virgins (the kind who don’t have sex), martyred, and turned into three maiden saints—Agape, Chionia, and Irene. Done.

Sacred horae

Sacred horae

Another example. In Iceland, a very matriarchal society at that time, every woman worshipped the goddess in her own home, on her own hearth. This woman was known as a “hussy,” and typically shared her “hus” (which meant both home and place of worship) with more than one “hus-band.” But when Iceland agreed in about 1000 AD to become Christian, guess what? The word hussy became a derogatory term. Done.

The Christian patriarchy seemed to be all about taking the power to choose away from women, a woman’s power over her own body being a prime example. At first glance one might think, how can anyone take one’s power to choose, or to control what she does with her body, away from a woman? We all know how it’s done today. Through public opinion, rape and the perpetuation of rape culture, legislation, and any number of societally accepted norms (from pay scales to product marketing) that marginalize and diminish women, or try to. And often succeed.

As the Catholic orthodoxy rose to prominence in Western and Eastern Europe, a woman with a lover became indistinguishable in the eyes of the church from a professional prostitute. Both were considered “whores.” In fact, women who gave their love and body freely to a lover were tortured in hell as viciously as the reviled prostitutes. St. Augustine and others depicted the torments reserved for sexually active women (whether lovers or whores) as being among the very worst—greater than those for murderers, for example.

We have inherited this twisted view of women and language—whereby both the women themselves and the words that described them have been repainted by a society hell-bent on destroying the truth and keeping women “in their place.” Though no longer considered the property of men, women are still either actively treated as objects or allowed by much of the bystanding populace to be objectified day after day on billboards, on Twitter, by Hollywood, you name it.

It would be lovely to reclaim our “nouns, verbs, and scarlet adjectives” in the pursuit of a genuine equality. It bothers me, I must admit, that history seems to begin, in the minds of 99% of the world, after women’s power was systematically stolen from them. Part of empowering women and men is to resurrect the truth and at least have a working knowledge of what the words that are used to shame, control, and demean women actually mean.

Scarlet. The color of a woman’s power, a woman’s sexuality, a woman’s direct connection to the divine. It has become my favorite word.

*from The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets, by Barbara G. Walker, entries on Horae, Ishtar, and Prostitution. Much of my information came from this source and I highly recommend this book to you if you do not have it.

Four Women and a Starting Place. Add 30 Years.

The 4 of us.

The 4 of us.

In Charlottesville, Virginia, humid late August 1977, two girls met in a shared suite in a dorm at the University of Virginia.

That was me and Molly, forging a friendship that was, for a time, like two people wearing the same sweater. There was the closeness of oneness and the parallel discoveries and experiences of a lifetime. First love, first hangover, first bong hit, first writing workshop, first apartment, first sex, first predatory professor, first job – all of it shared together if not in words, then in simply showing up.

Eventually I got Molly a job at the place I worked – she became barmaid in the dance club behind the restaurant where I waited tables downstairs, and men we found easy to fall in love with worked upstairs inside a golden circle, or behind the bar, shielded by cigarette smoke. There was not much we did not do together at first, and as we split off to live our own lives, nothing really changed about loving each other. She had a perfectly expressive face, animated eyes, eloquent long fingered hands. She wrote poetry and was learning Chinese.

Me, Molly, and our friend Bridget, outside the Cottage-of-Many-Parties.

Me, Molly, and our friend Bridget, outside the Cottage-of-Many-Parties.

She loved to eat and drink at bars with me, or sit at coffee shops imbibing hideous coffee and smoking hideous cigarettes as we talked about everything from Modernism to sexy guitar players we had a thing for. Molly represents the period in my life when I was figuring out who I was (or starting to), choosing my path, taking risks (as she puts it so lovingly) with my heart. Then she moved to Taiwan and I never saw her again. Until three weeks ago.

In Charlottesville, Virginia winter of 1982, two young women met in “The Cave” – an interior space in the bowels of Cabell Hall that served coffee and snacks.

I was introduced to Anne, a young MFA student, a poet, a girl with thick black hair held back by a barrette. Soon enough, she was coming to the little cottage in town that I shared with a mutual friend, Bridget, for pot luck dinners and round-robin back rubs. This friendship grew gently. It was allowed to do so because we were both settled, secure in our circles of friends, ready to get to know one another and we had time to do it.

I remember those years. There was so much time. Always enough time, to sit and be, go to work, go to class, write lots of papers and stories, hang out with other people, play silly games on bar napkins, dance till 3 a.m. and walk home sweating and alive only to have more time the next day. I remember showing up to meet Anne one day at the Virginian. I had just left the woods where I had been picnicking with my boyfriend. The strap on my shoe had broken. I saw her at the bar and I walked up, holding one sandal in my hand. She laughed. That was a perfect moment.

Her earnest, joyful, loyal friendship has seen me through … a lot. Her lush, alto voice is sure to help me feel centered, no matter where I am, or how I’m doing. We were in each other’s weddings and then…. For years, as we raised families and started careers, we rarely saw one another, but at some point I was reminded that, for me, Anne is a lodestone. Now, I see her whenever I can.

Anne and me in 2014, enjoying an afternoon visiting a couple wineries!

Anne and me in 2014, enjoying an afternoon visiting a couple wineries!

In Charlottesville, Virginia, fall semester 1983, I met Sarah in one of two classes we, by chance,  were taking together – a seminar dedicated exclusively to George Eliot and Charlotte Bronte (I know, heaven, right?), and a Lit Crit class.

Sarah had just moved back into the town. She had grown up and attended high school in Charlottesville, and now returned to finish up her college credits at UVA. I was still where I’d been since 1977, finishing up my college credits. And now, we got lucky – fate brought us together.

To say that my young twenties were fraught with some painful passages (some the usual kind about a broken heart, and some less usual, involving being stalked by a mentally ill parent), would be a glib sidestep, but that’s what I’m going to say and leave it at that. Sarah was the North Star smiling right into my face as I tried to put my head down, determined to get my diploma. We used to joke that we had parallel lives, and in some ways we did. We certainly were drawn to the same writers, and we both had “difficult” mothers. Sarah was the person who, no matter what was going on, would reach out to me. Years after I’d left Charlottesville, when she saw my missing-for-months mother wandering a street in Bethesda, MD, she called me immediately, knowing how much it would mean to me.

When something hurt me, or I was holding on too tight to my control, it was Sarah’s level gaze that would gently ease me into recognition, out of denial, and it often involved copious, painfully-relinquished tears. Sarah has remained my external hard drive, holding onto memories about my life that I have unwittingly let go. She can summon anger at a man who hurt me, or a job that demanded too much (like when I had to constantly cover for the coke-fiend diva who employed me), when I cannot because I have pushed things down too far. Sarah will hold me accountable to the events that transpired in those last years in my favorite town where so much good and bad happened.

When Sarah and I reunited in person after a 12 year gap. 2010.

When Sarah and I reunited in person after a 12 year gap. 2010.

None of these three women were friends with one another. Anne and Molly took a poetry class together at one point early on, and may have crossed paths through me. I used to love to open my house up to everyone I knew for pot-luck parties that had as much insanely good conversation as shitty wine and yummy food. We don’t think Sarah ever met either of them until she met Anne at my wedding in 1986, then, years later through me again, in Charlottesville. All of us had our circles of friends, and like a typical Venn diagram, there was some overlap. But in the Venn diagram of me, Molly, Anne, and Sarah, the little piece in the middle just had me.

These women were, like others I was fortunate to know in those formative and exciting years, absolutely central to my life and are intricately woven into who I am.

A few weeks ago, because Molly was going to be in the states (Richmond, VA to be exact) for a vacation—all the way from Taiwan—I drove down to Charlottesville with my daughter. Molly drove up from Richmond. We were pulled to reconnect for the first time in 30+ years. Sarah and Anne, who live in Charlottesville, Molly, my daughter, and I, gathered for dinner one night. Four sets of memories, four ways of knowing me, four versions of my past… and The Past. And I knew each of them in a particular way, at a particular time. We had found one another for particular reasons.

I think of certain women, scattered across my life, as my chosen sisters. Or my found sisters. Whether we come together to fulfill a pact made in a past life, or to continue helping one another grow on a continuum that predates and will postdate this lifetime, or by chance alone, it doesn’t matter. For that weekend in Charlottesville, January 2015, I was content to be the hub connecting these women to one another at this time and that place.

We met for dinner and we were just four women and a daughter. As we sat together around the table, sparklers twinkled at the edges of my vision. Was this a magic trick? Or life so sweet? Was it simply as it was meant to be? Yes to all.

The Privilege of Self-Improvement

privilege

Not that I’m the poster child for personal evolution and self-discovery, but I sure do feel privileged. Why? Because at  every point in my life when I had the urge to take a step into my unknown mysterious calling – whatever it was at the time – I could take it.

This rather obvious fact hit me over the head the other day. With privilege comes both time and money – both of which are quite helpful when we want to self-improve. Whether it is the Reiki training I suddenly felt called to, or the shamanic training I’ve received over the last ten years, or the hours spent across a table from a dear soul sister sorting through the latest spiritual bushwhacking we’ve participated in – I’ve been blessed.

Sure I work hard and sure I strive and toil – a fact which unites us all on some level. But a still, sun drenched winter morning spent with one of two Tarot decks at my disposal is within my realm of possibility. If I hear about a book that I know will kick my butt, or amuse me, or guide me to a door that needs opening, I buy it. If I have to head up to the mountain top that is my journeying spot, I head there (either in reality or otherwise).

Sure I’d like to travel to Greece and do a goddess tour, or to Italy to seek details of a past life – not every privilege is “easy” for everyone who is privileged, but I’m pretty confident I’ll be able to make these trips happen, as well as a week or two among the Celtic mysteries in Scotland and Ireland. Something to aspire to. And I can.

  • Because I don’t have to aspire to get my GED because I didn’t have to drop out of high school. I got a kick-ass education because I grew up assuming that was important and that I could. Even though I put myself through college and grad school, I consider that a privilege too. I knew how to support myself and had done so for 10 years by the time I was done with my education. And that is a kind of empowerment many uber-privileged children are denied. Things can come too easily, it turns out.
  • Because I was empowered enough to know I had choices. I did not have to bear a child when I could not do justice to one. I was able to choose when to bring my babies into the world – and they waited for me to be ready.
  • Because I was born white and middle class, to an ambitious, upwardly mobile (if mentally unstable – can’t have everything) mother. Not only was I clad and shod, fed and taught, there were books on the shelves and records on the stereo and paintings on the wall. And trips to the Met and MoMA, Lincoln Center, and Carnegie Hall.
  • Because I don’t have to work a minimum wage job, or depend on food stamps to survive, and if I work a second job it is not so I can pay the heating bill, it’s so I can send my own kids to college, or maybe save up for that trip to Greece. Feel me?
  • Because I have health insurance.
  • Because I have the luxury of thoughtful opinions, know that my vote matters, and have time to speak up, opine, march, fight for my rights and those of others (with words, anyway). Single moms living in tenements have no such luxury, though voting is power and everyone has that privilege…. At least for now.

When privileged politicians use their positions to look with contempt on those less fortunate, I realize they are not using their privilege to self-improve, but to self-aggrandize, and worse. Their karma is entirely besmirched, of course, but I won’t gloat about that. Everyone else pays the price of their comfortable hetero-patriarchal ability to look down on people who are not like them.

I’ll try hard to use my privilege not only to improve upon my small soul, but to grow my large soul. Oh, and love everyone. Even that, it seems, is a privilege.

Body of Gratitude — Reprise

gratitude

I wrote most of this blog a year ago. At that point, I wrote about the previous year, and the journey I had taken out of heartbreak. Most of the 30 blog posts leading up to last Thanksgiving’s blog were stepping stones to healing, taking me closer to moments of real happiness. I have come to realize that happiness is, though an aspiration worthy of us, a bonus, like when the champagne pops or they move you up to first class for no apparent reason.

Today I am with my family. This whole week, actually. My entire family, which includes not only my children, but also the father of my children, once so estranged from me that we divorced. There is no accounting for how the heart’s GPS will take you. Eventually you end up where you are meant to be. And for that, I am grateful this Thanksgiving. The rest of this blog is the same as it was before. I liked it then, and think it worthy of another Thanksgiving. I hope you like it….

Some people have a body of work to represent a lifetime of creation. Today, I find that I have a body of gratitude that represents a lifetime of blessings.

Head. Inside my extra-large head there is a brain that works well, most of the time. I have always trusted my brain to get me through. To be smart and capable. It is a quick thinker, and I’m grateful it lets me keep up. I may not be able to remember a lot of life’s details (see my blog on memory), but I remember enough. I remember falling in love with books, acquiring my baby sisters during the dark night of childhood, feeling happiness like bubbles that would surprise me on a Friday afternoon as I boarded the crosstown bus home from school. I remember dancing on the bar, skinnydipping at dawn, road trips at midnight with the friends of the moment. I remember the people I have loved and cleaved to for life: true friends. My head has gotten me into plenty of trouble, don’t get me wrong. I can overthink, overanalyze, the usual roadblocks of a writer and reader. But my brain has always been secure for me, and my friend. I am grateful for my head and everything that goes on in there.

Eyes. Thank you, universe, for not making me blind. I am as close to it as a person can be without actually being blind at all. My vision is appallingly bad – once estimated at 20/1800 by a surprised ophthalmologist I went to. But thanks to modern technology I am corrected to about 20/35 and have seen Swan Lake and The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center. I have seen the Pacific Ocean, the Caribbean and the Atlantic. I have seen a giant humpback whale staring at me from 20 feet below, as she popped up beside my boat. I have seen the faces of students look at me with disbelief, gratitude, pride, exhilaration, realization, frustration, desperation, love, joy, and the thrill of epiphany. I have read books, love letters, and the poetry of my gifted daughter. I have looked down from the top of the Eiffel Tower at the lights of Paris and have looked up at Arenal—a live volcano in Costa Rica, as it spewed truck sized globs of magma down its sides in glowing rivers. I have seen the look of love on the face of a few good men. Best of all, of course, I saw the faces of my children still smeary and blurred with the exercise of birthing. I saw them open their eyes for the first time to look at me, their mother in this beautiful lifetime. I am grateful for my eyes.

Mouth. What is life without the taste of fermented grapes, roasted coffee, or aged cheese? How can I ever describe how thankful I am for deep soft kisses?

Ears. My son is a musician. That alone gives my ears meaning. My father gave me his love by sitting me down in his study to listen to Sibelius, Brahms, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Puccini. Etc. The music of my life, from Joni to Aretha, poured through my ears and filled the spaces inside me like custard in a mold. Soon enough, the music was me. What about the sound of the surf, distant lawnmowers on a summer’s day, the swish of skis on groomed snow, the crackle of a fire, or the song of a mockingbird? Yeah, all of it.

Throat. The chakra spins. Having a voice. To speak, to be. I think with my head but I write with my body – my throat where my voice lives, and my hands that know how to get it all out. I am grateful for my throat.

Heart. There is no real explanation for why the heart works the way it does. I don’t mean why it pumps blood and oxygen to all the other parts of the body (grateful or otherwise)– scientists have that figured out. I’m talking about The Heart – the metaphorical seat of feeling. How does anyone know how to love? How can even the most damaged of souls have a heart of love inside them? I am grateful that loving has always come easily to me. Not necessarily trusting or sharing – but love, yes. My heart does not hold grudges. I loved my sisters on sight and that feeling has never waned. I love so many friends who could ask anything of me. I love my uncles, aunts, cousins galore, without reservation. I have loved a few men in my life. Not many. Enough. That love does not go away any more than any other love goes away. When someone is gone, the love just hibernates in the deep cells of the body of gratitude. I am grateful for those loves. The love a mother feels for the human beings grown in her body, fed from her body, nurtured on her body. Well, it seems obvious and effortless but I suppose it is not. Did my mother know that love? Hard to say. But I am grateful that I do.

Breasts. It took me a long time to be grateful for mine. As a young woman, I resented their asymmetry (which is remarkable and no I won’t put up a picture to prove it), their perky girlishness (was I insane?). Now I think my boobs kick all kinds of ass. They fed two very hungry babies who grew at record breaking rates. They have gained character and given me and others pleasure over the years. And at this stage in my life I am most grateful that they have retained their shape and… uh, elevation. Good job, breasts. Thank you.

Uterus. What can I say? I’m a goddess, as is every woman who contains within her the power of life. I fell in love with my body for positive sure when I grew a person inside me. And then again when I pushed it out with the power of all the love and gratitude any mere human can muster. And then I did it again.

Vagina. The magical mystery of being female. The vagina is a way out – for blood and/or life. Everyone starts life through that flowering exit. And it is the way in—to the center of a woman.  It is a mystery that everyone ponders, some fear, and some love. I am grateful for my vagina. It has given me joy, pleasure, glory, pain, and myself.

Legs. I am grateful for my legs and how pretty they have always been. How they let me dance. How they let me be tall. They ache now and then. My knees creak. But I can still boogie my ass off and hike a mountain and ride a bike and that’s awesome.

Feet. I am not always fearless. In fact fear has overcome me at times in my life. But I have guts. My feet, they walk. I do what I need to do. I go where I need to go, and work as hard as I need to work. Most of the time, my feet don’t fail me. I am grateful to my feet for carrying my body of gratitude through five decades of living. I am also grateful for pedicures.

There is not much in my life I am not grateful for, come to think of it. I even love the pain and heartbreak – how else could I be me without it? And I have food, clean water, health insurance, and a home I am not in danger of losing. I can use my head, my heart, my voice, my legs – to make a difference however small. I can go. I can come. I can say yes. I can say no. I can embrace. I can push away. I can stand tall. I can lie down. I can stay silent. But I probably won’t.

 

 

 

Asymmetry

Jacqueline Rocque by Picasso, 1954

Jacqueline Rocque by Picasso, 1954

I am asymmetrical. Though no one is perfectly symmetrical, they say, I am close to the “odd” end of the bell curve

At certain times of my life, the fact that my two halves are not mirror images of one another has caused me some consternation. Especially in my young years, growing into maturity in a world that values perfect symmetry as the epitome of beauty. Wikipedia puts it clearly: “More symmetrical faces are perceived as more attractive in both males and females, although facial symmetry plays a larger role in judgments of attractiveness concerning female faces.”

I’m not sure why human beings want both sides of an object to match each other in every particular. That desire may be encoded in our DNA. After all, nature designed the animal and plant kingdoms to have bilateral structures. At least on the outside. Nobody actually looks like Jacqueline Roque (whose picture is posted with this blog) in real life.

All the same, I’ve come to love the way my two halves don’t match. My left eye is smaller than my right, and my right eye has a smaller lid than my left. My left lid droops a bit over my eye, too, especially when I’m very tired. My left breast is almost half the size of my right. My nursing babies were not as happy with it – perhaps it gave less milk. My left foot, now that I am no longer so young, is aging more quickly than my right. Its toes curl a bit, and it’s falling apart (literally), whereas my right foot looks as youthful as ever.

The age old prejudice against the left side makes me feel protective of my less idealized left side. The words “gauche” and “sinister” – coming directly from the French and Latin words for “left” – diminish the quirky loveliness of the “other” side.

Not many people comment on my asymmetry. Though noticeable, it does not scream “FREAK!” I have had many men find me beautiful and desirable, something I have always enjoyed. As hard as I can be on myself and as difficult as the aging process is for me, I have always found myself striking to look at and, since my youthful and highly insecure years, have embraced my lack of mirror imagery.

Funny story. Once, a doctor said to me upon doing a visual exam of my breasts prior to the more painful, but much less awkward, touch exam – “Did you know your breasts are not the same size?” His voice was a bit shrill and he sounded quite taken aback. A medical professional no less. Seriously?

I looked him in the eye (not easy to do when your boobs are out) and said, “Why yes, I did.” He quickly covered his tracks, saying that it is not at all uncommon for breasts to be different sizes or even shapes. “Really, now, doctor. Are you saying that this lack of symmetry [I gestured to exhibits A and B] is common?”

“No, not really.”

I am unique! Maybe one side is my “best side” and one isn’t. Maybe I’ll dedicate the two sides of myself to science. I’m not quite ready for the freak show, mind you. Just a quirky Picasso-esque woman with two of everything.

The Beauty of a Broken Heart

mended heart

Recently someone came into my office and saw a mask on a shelf. She exclaimed, “This is so beautiful!” It is a Mayan mask that one of my sisters brought to me from Mexico when I was teaching the culture of ancient Maya to my 6th graders. Somewhere along the line it broke and I patched it together. It’s still beautiful. The cement that creates the bond between the broken pieces does not detract from its beauty, and, according to the woman who noticed it the other day, may even make it more beautiful and precious.

photo (1)

About a week earlier, I was in New York with my sisters and a friend. After dinner, we spontaneously visited a palmist on 33rd Street. During my session with her, the hardest to hear but the thing that sounded most true was that I have had a rough go of it (my whole life) where love is concerned. She expounded at length, mentioned a possible curse, and never concluded much about what comes next. The choices I make will guide that outcome, as will the meanings inherent in my heart’s map.

I think my heart is my best feature. It knows how to love and feel things deeply. But my heart is broken. It is broken the way the mask is broken. The lines of glue that hold it together are not going anywhere. They are visible and real. They are, like any scar, a part of me. Nothing, whether artifact or heart, is ever “unbroken.” They can be mended. They can be as strong as they ever were, but the marks of misfortune, brutality, and carelessness will never go away.

Sometime after my meeting with the mysteriously intense palm reader in New York, I was given a routine EKG to clear me for foot surgery. It turned out not to be so routine after all, and triggered a cascade of tests upon my heart, performed at the Heart Center at Vassar Hospital. My heart, the eternally open golden cup of the Tarot, is a gift to me and to anyone who has my love. It is also an organ made as much of water and electricity as meat. What will the tests reveal? Is my meaty heart organ flawed in some way? Or does the brokenness and sadness that my heart holds within it somehow talk to the EKG machine, which measures electrical impulses?

The ghost in the machine. EKG as medium, channeling the mysterious language of a mended heart. I may sound wacky but there is something to this, I think, if not scientifically.

The full-body-and-heart love of my children, not to mention the loyal love of some real friends – and even the nuzzling solicitous affection of my cats – these are healing and pure like the vibration of a rose quartz or the sensuous comfort of candlelight. But the lines in my heart are there. I embrace my beautiful broken heart and refuse to be critical of its scars, its less-than-perfection, or its senseless longing.

“Your Loss, Sailorman” OR You Don’t Need a Man to Tell You How Kickass You Are, Girl – a Hindsight Analysis of the Song Brandy

Brandy, one year later.

Brandy, one year later.

I came of age while the song “Brandy” by Looking Glass was a major hit on the radio. It came out in 1972 when I was 12. I was biologically mature, and, like all 12 year olds, still a little girl. Despite the fact that the still newborn thing called feminism was doing its level best to empower me and my fellow females, I was still very much at the mercy of the overarching societal dumbass assumptions about heterosexual relationships, and so Brandy just became a part of my indoctrination. Unbeknownst to me.

If you have not heard the song (probably because you are extremely young), you can listen here: “Brandy” by Looking Glass. The lyrics are posted at the bottom of this blog.

The song gets into your head immediately. It is catchy. Very. Though according to my cursory research Looking Glass had four hits, Brandy is the only one I actually remember, and I listened to the radio constantly. Back then, it was either that, or vinyl.

I always felt sorry for Brandy. I mean, she loved a man, and he loved her. But poor Brandy lost him to the sea… which he apparently loved a lot more than he loved her. He didn’t die, or anything. No. He just left her and said, “Sorry. You’re great. You’d be a super fine wife. But I’m married to the ocean, which holds my heart and you basically have no hope of competing, ever.”

The other day this song popped up on one of my more self-indulgent Pandora stations. As per usual, I was singing along as I went about my business. Then something happened. I actually heard the words coming out of my mouth – words I had known by heart for 40 years.

And I got really pissed off. “Wait a god damned minute,” I said to my reflection in the mirror as I held the blow dryer away from my head.

The chorus, sung three whole times, tells Brandy she’d make a “fine wife.” By what criteria and who says? And why does that even MATTER? As if being a “fine wife” is the be all and end all of Brandy’s hopes, dreams, and ambitions.

The song beats us about the head with the blunt, but implicit, message that A. her qualifications as a wife are determined by a bunch of dudes who hang out in a bar and a guy who doesn’t have the balls to commit to her and actually find out and B. that she is a tragic figure because she will not ever be granted the privilege of becoming his wife. That wifehood is the only life path for her… aside from being a barmaid, which is a highly honorable profession that allows her to be self-sufficient, and yet is belittled in the song lyrics as nothing more than “laying whiskey down.” Anyone out there who has bartended or waited tables (like me and Brandy) knows it takes a lot of chutzpah and brains, not to mention organizational and time-management skills. Not to mention people skills.

Brandy as painter

Brandy as painter

But that’s not even all. We don’t know what Brandy does in her off hours! What if she paints, or makes dream catchers and sells them on the 1972 equivalent of Etsy, or has a huge garden full of organic veggies and flowers? We don’t know because she is marginalized in the song by the sexist idea that, though she would have done the job of wife just “fine,” she won’t have a chance because she had the misfortune to fall for an asshole. End of story. The narrative is exclusively that of the unnamed sailor whose rejection becomes the END of Brandy’s story.

Maybe I’m being harsh – he might not be an asshole. He might just be a guy trapped in the classic male-defined paradigm. Unfortunately, so is Brandy.

I can only assume that there is a whole back story to Brandy that we don’t know about… and that the sailorman never had a chance to find out before he sped back to his irresistible life at sea.

If Brandy were to write the song, I imagine it would go a little differently. Especially after she got in touch with her empowered kickass self and realized she was a fully actualized person not dependent on the approval of a man, let alone matrimony.

She would write a song about a passionate fling she had one summer with an intense sailor who passed through town, gave her a silver locket, some mindblowing sex, and a few days of laughs and long afternoon naps, bodies entwined. She liked him… a lot. They could have had something, but the guy A. had no interest in living on land, B. used the sea as a cover for his commitment-phobic issues, or C. was overwhelmed by how strong the feelings were with Brandy in just a few days, so he bolted.

In her version of the song, Brandy thinks, “Your loss, sailor man.” And in that version, she is sad for awhile. Then she paints a few erotically charged paintings of her seafaring ex-lover, pulls weeds in her garden and plants a rose bush in his honor, and releases him in a fire ceremony with some of her closest women friends who also, funnily enough, say, “Your loss, sailor man.”

Brandy's fire ceremony

Brandy’s fire ceremony

Lyrics to Brandy:

There’s a port on a Western bay
And it serves a hundred ships a day
Lonely sailors pass the time away
And talk about their homes

There’s a girl in this harbor town
And she works laying whiskey down
They say Brandy, fetch another round
She serves them whisky and wine
The sailors say…

Chorus: Brandy, you’re a fine girl
< you’re a fine girl >
What a good wife you would be
Your eyes could steal a sailor from the sea

Brandy wears a braided chain
Made of finest silver from the north of Spain
A locket that bears the name of the man that Brandy loves
He came on a summer’s day – bearing gifts – from far away
But he made it clear he couldn’t stay
The harbor was his home

– Chorus –

Bridge: Brandy used to watch his eyes
As he told his sailor stories
She could feel the ocean fall and rise
She saw its raging glory
But he had always told the truth
Lord he was an honest man
And Brandy does her best to understand

At night when the bars close down
Brandy walks through a silent town
And loves a man who’s not around
She still can hear him say
She hears him say… (Chorus)

The Hole Left Behind

Since July, when Scott died, I have wanted to write about it. It’s what I do – write about stuff. It’s how I process. But I think, nobody can write about this. Because it’s impossible. No one can touch with words the bottomless grief that he left behind in his parents and siblings. No one can capture the perfection of a 22 year old boy who died horribly decades too soon.

What is the shape of the hole left in too many lives to count? Is it his shape? Big and tall – I can see the outline in my mind’s eye. Broad and burly with a floppy shock of hair. I color in the outline I see, the outline left when he was wrenched out of the world. I color his hair sunflower yellow and his eyes blue. The crinkles come next, at the corners of his ever-smiling eyes. The grin, shit-eating and fun, and full of limitless love for whoever he was smiling at. The low slung jeans fade forward from the void of his outline, cornflower blue, muddy cuffs. He just got in from the farm where he worked all day with his dad. Tending cows, mending fence, plowing in straight, fragrant lines.

Scott at graduation 2014

 

Summer Gratitude

Bash Bish falls, right in my backyard. Well, so to speak.

Bash Bish falls, right in my backyard. Well, so to speak.

Summer when I was a child was a joy because I got to spend lots of time with my dad, stepmother, and sisters. As a mom, it meant time with my children – lazy hours of just being, digging, singing, or eating sun warmed garden veggies. As a teacher it was time to regroup, plan, and write. But even so, summer has never been my favorite season. Or even my second or third favorite.

But year after year, I wonder how I forget all there is to love about the summer. Here is my list of at least some of the things for which I am very grateful as the summer of 2014 winds to a close.

  • A chance to live under the same roof with my daughter for maybe the last time. Laughing with legs crossed and eyes streaming, watching the same stupid movies over again and not minding, playing a never ending game of gin rummy, walking to Bash Bish, finding any excuse to eat out, parallel play on our computers, cooking together, and all the rest.
  • Sisterhood in the tropics with the 9 St. Martin Chicklets, sweating and drinking and throwing Tarot in soft air, braless.

    The sisterhood here represented by our cocktails.

    The sisterhood here represented by our cocktails.

  • Road trip to Virginia all on my own with a big fat book on CD and as many stops at Starbucks as I wanted.
  • Sorting books with Sandy McAdams at Daedalus Bookstore in Charlottesville, smearing book dust across a damp brow as I folded the cardboard lids closed (apparently not everyone can do that) and marking KEEP or GIVE AWAY in thick black Sharpie. It’s all about companionship with an old friend, and, well… books.

    Best bookstore in the country -- 100,000+ books. Daedalus in Charlottesville. An institution. Not an inch of wasted space.

    Best bookstore in the country — 100,000+ books. Daedalus in Charlottesville. An institution. Not an inch of wasted space.

  • Sitting under a vineyard’s pergola drinking a glass of wine with my friend Anne, falling into the familiarity of sisterhood with a string of days that did not make demands stretching out behind and ahead of us.

    Genuine Virginia grapes at a genuine Virginia vineyard/winery.

    Genuine Virginia grapes at a genuine Virginia vineyard/winery.

  • A family weekend with my lovely son in Vermont. All four of us with 36 whole hours together. Time as a family was once commonplace and precious. Now it is rare and precious. We shopped for shoes. We drank iced coffee. We hung around and talked. I sat for hours with everyone as they fished lazily for bass and catfish in a huge “pond.” I counted far more blessings than fish that day.

    First catch of the afternoon.

    First catch of the afternoon.

  • Middle Bass Island and hours of cards with a sister, a daughter, a niece, and cousins of several generations. We sat on big blankets looking out at the vastness of Lake Erie. Everyone’s legs and heads were bare. Trees overhead dappled us with August light and we sat until evening.

    Lake Erie at sunset from the grove on Middle Bass Island.

    Lake Erie at sunset from the grove on Middle Bass Island.

  • Restaurants with outdoor seating, like The Greens, in my humble town.

    Dinner on the porch at The Greens. The place to be at sunset.

    Dinner on the porch at The Greens. The place to be at sunset.

  • Minor league baseball. This summer it was the Hudson Renegades playing at home against the Burlington Vermont Lake Monsters. Evening game. Falling light. Perfect.
    Hudson Valley Renegades vs. Burlington Lake Monsters
  • One or two hot days when a beer – really cold – tasted so good.
    IMG_2738
  • Cincinnati — new home of my sister — and time spent with family I miss.

    3 generations.

    3 generations.

  • Early mornings in my plastic Adirondack chair in the middle of the yard, shaded by a giant pine, cat on lap, book in hand, coffee nearby. I think I posted a few too many photos of this situation on Facebook, but it was always just perfect.
    cat morning
  • As ever – endless lines of laundry hung to dry in the sun and breeze. This is maybe the main thing that keeps me living in the country.
    photo (2)
  •  The freedom to go to work at 10, leave for lunch, or work on Saturday but not on Monday.
  • Great music in small bars.

    The Nolan sisters rocking out.

    The Nolan sisters rocking out.

  • Late night TV marathons on Netflix with no thought of the consequences.
  • Fresh corn. Fresh greens. Fresh tomatoes. Fresh mint. And as much basil as I could ever want.
    photo 1

Summer always has its own rules, its own schedule, and its own vault where indiscretions and late night confessions can live out their lives.  I am grateful for those days when the air and my skin don’t notice each other. It’s like being in a giant womb called the universe, only I get to have teeth, and my eyes open.

Thank you, summer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sisterhood

An island the sisterhood sailed to together where we lunched on mahi mahi with our toes digging in the sand.

The sisterhood sailed to this island and lunched on mahi mahi with our toes digging in the sand.

I have understood the beauty of sisterhood – on some level – all my life. I have two sisters, went to a girls’ school for most of elementary all the way through high school, and have some powerful lifetime friendships with kickass women. But it has been a very long time since I’ve lived with women – not counting my daughter who, somewhere along the way, went from girl to woman.

Recently I spent seven days with 8 women in St. Martin. There were nine of us there to share our love for a friend who celebrated her 50th birthday last month. Nine is such a powerful number – standing sturdily on a triad within a triad it is as invincible as the trinity cubed. 50 is such a powerful number too – so full of life lived. At 50 we have arrived, but we also have so far still to go. Nine celebrating 50 was blessedness.

The nine of us arrived on a Wednesday afternoon and two jeeps, one candy red and one lemon yellow, waited for us. We used them to zoom off to our island aerie. Well, we zoomed cautiously, as the island is riddled with speed bumps. Once there, we stripped off all semblance of where we came from and eased into the pool holding goblets of rum punch. For the next seven days, we were together. We played, ate, talked, explored, talked, swam, drank, laughed, talked, laughed, cried, and played –together— in seamless, effortless camaraderie. Oh and we talked a LOT. And laughed. Did I mention that?

Some rum punch awaited us when we arrived. Of course, not all sisters march to the same drumbeat when it comes to afternoon beverages. Thus, the beer.

Some rum punch awaited us when we arrived. Of course, not all sisters march to the same drumbeat when it comes to afternoon beverages. Thus, the beer.

We didn’t have to cook – David took care of that when he arrived at the house every day at around 6 to prepare flawless meals for us. We didn’t have to clean up, plan, shop, or set an alarm. We were –yes, spoiled. But no! I reject that. Spoiling implies doing damage to someone through overindulgrence – undeserved indulgence.

Not only did we deserve every stress free day, we were far from damaged by the process. We healed, inside and out. As working women and mothers, all 9 of us know the constant pull of things to do and plan – what am I making for dinner, I have to call that client while Billy is at the orthodontist, can I get the laundry into the dryer before I go pick up child number 1, 2, or 3 at school or drop off child number 2, 3, or 4 at hockey practice?

Responsibility is a constant thread in our lives. Worry, or at least concern, about those responsibilities is a drumbeat that we don’t recognize until it is gone. Most people go on vacation just to think about stopping at the grocery store or herding the troops in a new location. There is always something refreshing about being somewhere different, but the background music of “things to do and plan” is constant and unrelenting.

There was not one single moment of “things to do and plan” while we lived in the now-bubble of the Caribbean. Hours could go by as we floated in the pool – several of us or all of us, bobbing like buoys in the gentle blue water. Some of us might sit on pool-sunk stools at a pool-bar kind of thing where we could be immersed in the water while we drank a wine spritzer or noshed on cheese and grapes. High sun gave way to long shadows as we circled the pool, emerging, sunning on chaises, reentering, as conversation ebbed and flowed. We kvetched, we cried, we said “I love you” to one another.

Many days found us on a beach. About half of us were sun-worshippers. The other half stayed in the shade of beach umbrellas, set up for us ahead of time by beach boys with whom we would shamelessly flirt as we ordered food and drinks on the shore. Most of us wound up topless at some point, realizing the true liberty of a culture that neither demonizes nor worships naked breasts.

I honor my sisters by not posting their photos on this blog, but here is a deserted beach we visited one day and inhabited, alone, for an hour or so.

I honor my sisters by not posting their photos on this blog, but here is a deserted beach we visited one day and inhabited, alone, for an hour or so.

Long lunches and longer dinners were luxuries of connectedness and proof that we had nowhere else to be. I found the openness of time to be very comforting. I often went off by myself, to read in the hammock or write under the roof of the sprawling outdoor dining room that opened to the pool, the open-air kitchen, and the view to the sea. I never worried about missing something, falling behind, or being out of the loop. The loop was a cocoon that embraced and held us all. Even when one of us was outside the immediate close circle, we were all “looped in” to that circle.

Alone time.

Alone time.

Was it the luxurious relaxation that made the sisterhood seem so important? No, of course not. We could live in sisterhood anywhere, at any time. But having literally nothing pulling on us allowed us the gift of time and space to focus on ourselves and one another fully. FULLY. I remember it now, sitting here at my computer. The total focus on us.

One of our members had a saying she’d call out joyfully whenever moved to do so: “I love us!” We all loved us.

Showing up to dinner as dressed up or down as we wanted, braless under summer dresses, with or without pearls, with or without shoes, we could banter, cry, drink wine, groan with pleasure at the next course, laugh without holding in our bellies. And we learned that…sisterhood is freedom. Sisterhood is dirty feet and afternoon naps and the comfort of loving each other’s children. Sisterhood is when someone puts sunscreen on us so carefully that we could not have done it better ourselves. Sisterhood is dancing to one another’s play lists, reading tarot for each other, and fixing each other drinks “while we’re up.”

Sisterhood is the easy comfort of being ourselves for ourselves, and for each and every sister whose direct, loving gaze mirrors us to a T. I realized it’s easier to be me with 8 women than it is to be me with one man. Maybe this reveals my own issue. But it also is proof positive that sisterhood is home.

Pinel Island, where we spent a few blissful afternoons.

Pinel Island, where we spent a few blissful afternoons.