Oh, faux goddess of marketing wank, thou art sneeky.

There are people twisting the Divine Feminine into a weapon, swathed in gossamer pastels, crystal bedazzled, spritzed with flowery essential oils, stamped with the patriarchy’s seal of approval and thrust at us as a handy tool for empowerment perfectly sized to fit in our delicate lady hands.

Domestic Goddess

Sex Goddess

Business Goddess

Goddesses have been regulated to the realm of useful sales tactic.

We think we are being empowered, making progress, when we’re really paddling in circles with one oar,  trying to shove each other overboard with the other and completely ignoring the sinking boat.

Every time I see some business using the word goddess, I get a little rage-y. Occasionally I’m pleasantly surprised and they are offering something that isn’t full of misogynistic wank. Most of the time, it’s some ‘perfect woman’ bullshit that’s getting a nice pat on the head from the patriarchy while emptying your wallet.

“The Perfect Woman is a form of violence against women, but it is violence that we are required to enact against each other and ourselves.

Any time we encourage or teach another girl or woman – or ourselves – to be The Perfect Woman, we are doing harm to all women.” Kelly Diels

Take Aphrodite, for example. Isn’t she the ultimate sex/love goddess? Beautiful. Lusted after. Long and lean. Completely conforming to the patriarchal standard for beauty. Just what every woman should be striving for. Right?

Buy into the marketing. Be the Barbie doll. Big tits, little waist, wealthy, total lack of vocal cords and all.

Forget how the Mount Olympus Boy’s Club tried tame and control her or how she did whatever the fuck she wanted anyway.

I wonder if those people selling Aphrodite This & and Aphrodite That have worked with her, heard her story in her own words or only know her as a watered down goddess of love and beauty.

When Aphrodite speaks to me, I hear a story of a women who took risks for love, pushed back against the men who would cage her and never stopped fighting for the space to be herself.

Goddesses are not cute marketing ploys.

They don’t exists to show you how to clean the house, make bank, diet & give your man a bj while wearing the perfect outfit. They are not interested in teaching you how to be a ‘Good Girl’.

But there is a ton of Goddess Academies, Goddess Universities, and Goddess Colleges trying to do just that. Some of which have nothing to do with goddess work or if they do it comes in the form of Spiritual Bypassing fluffy nonsense.

I believe in taking back our Goddesses, reclaiming their stories. Freeing them from the patriarchy so that we can free ourselves.

 

Weeds in the Garden

These weeds grow wild and free on my property.

This piece features one of my photographs mounted on cradled wood board. I’ve coated it with several layers of gel medium to create a faux encaustic look.  I love the aged feel it has.

Sometimes I think passion is something Life Coaches made up

When was the last time you got excited about something? Quivering excited? Jump up and down excited?

I have a hard time remembering the last time I got excited. Partly because I rarely do anything exciting and I avoid getting excited to avoid being disappointed.

It’s really fucking sad.

It’s not how I want to spend the rest of my days.

I want to find something I’m passionate about and allow myself feel that passion sear through my veins.

There is a level of commitment that comes with being so passionate about something that it burns you up. It kinda scares me. It takes an investment that I’m not sure I want to make. Drive that I’m not sure I have.

I’ve cultivated a safe life of mild disinterest.

Oh well, I didn’t really give a fuck anyway, method of living. 

Safe. Comfortable. Boring as hell.

It’s easy not being passionate about anything. It takes zero effort.

Admitting that you give all the fucks you have to give about a thing, that’s hard. Things might not work out. People will shit on the thing you love. Who wants to risk that?

Not many of us, but  amazing things happen when we find what we are passionate about and allow ourselves to go after it at full tilt.

At least I think amazing things happen. I’ve heard stories.

I’m still looking for my passion. I don’t know if I haven’t found it or I have and it’s such a strange feeling that I don’t know what it is when I feel it. Or I’m too chicken shit to admit to it.

What do I love the fuck out of? Other than my husband and kids?

Honestly, the work I’m trying to do here. It’s in the art, the stories, the poems and the intuitive workings.

I also think it’s in something I haven’t found yet. Something I think I’d enjoy, but don’t really know because I’ve never done it before. I’ve got to work on having more of those experiences.

What do you love the fuck out of?

 

 

 

There is another life out there and I want it.

I’m not happy.

Yes, I have things to be happy about and I love everyone one of them, but I’m not happy.

This isn’t the life I want to be living. It’s a total asshole thing to say. It’s selfish. It’s like telling my husband he isn’t good enough. Which isn’t remotely true.

Maybe discontent is a better word. No. No, it’s not.

There is too much content-ness going on here. Settled. Comfortable. Suffocating. Binding.

I want something different. Long for. Crave.

The ache of this unknow unlived life pulses with every beat of my heart.

The pounding of a drum trying to change the dance without knowing how.

I want to travel. Let my bare feet touch the ground in new strange places. Stay long enough to know if I’ve found a new home.

I want a wildly successful business that supports me in every way. That sets me on fire and helps me spread that fire. Burn the world down.

I want lazy mornings in bed. Sheets that feel like heaven against my skin. Sex.

I want clothes that help me feel amazing. That fit. That are just as sexily geeky and gothy as I am.

I want a healthy body. One that performs all the tasks I need it to. Without suffering. Body love with ease.

I want a home to come home to. A house with working parts. Comfortable and beautiful spaces. Welcoming spaces. Sanctuary.

I want a car. Maybe two. A classic car that screams sex. The perfect gleaming black paint job. A truck that works hard. Roaring engine. Mud fling tires. Ever part performing to perfection. Creams jeans.

Bonfires. Starry skies. Chocolate. Full body massages.

It gives me the chills just thinking about it. The good chills. The ones you get when your lover brushes their lips along your naked skin.

Delicious fiery destruction of fear.

Burn it down. Rise from the ash.

This keeps repeating in my head. Like a new mantra, but also a message.

A message for me. A message for you.

How do I want to burn? Feral. Wild. Like rum on a fire. Leaving new growth in my wake.

I don’t know what that looks like, yet. I don’t know what container it needs, yet.

I do know it’s a feeling that won’t go away. I thought it would. I thought I could just let things go, do a little painting, a little writing and that somehow, the deep ache would fade away.

It’s not. It’s digging it’s claws in.

I work with fire, tornadoes and raging floods. This is deep work. Hard work. Scary work. This is healing work. It’s the healing that comes from downing a couple of shots, cutting open old wounds, digging out the shrapnel, sterilizing the infection and stitching yourself back together. Then going out for strippers and ice cream.

It freaks me the fuck out. What if I’m not good enough to do this work? What if I can’t escort you through the fire?

If this is how I serve as a Priestess, I must have faith that I can do this work, faith that the Goddesses know what the fuck they are doing.

I’ve been uncertain about where to begin, how to fill this space, but I have to start.

I have nothing to sell you. But I’m burning away. Feverish with desire for the work. I burn for you when you can’t burn for yourself, when your fire has been smothered. Not in a way that keeps your fire from you, but like Bridgid’s sacred flame helping you kindle your spark.

Burn it down. Rise from the ash.

I’m going to be listening to what the Goddesses tell me and doing my best to do what they are asking of me. So this is where I start, with an imperfect beginning.

In the beginning she was formless, flowing, expanding, like lava weeping from deep within the earth.

How do you want to burn?