I’m a lawyer — a woman who chose to devote herself to The Law as her primary means of making love to the world — and I can get teary-eyed reading the inscription (“Equal Justice Under Law”) carved above the doors to the Supreme Court. It happens to me every time that I’m there, surrounded by clients, co-counsel, or opponents. Most of them, lawyers as well, have to wipe their own tears away. (The white marble steps are known to be blinding, and I’ve had policemen tell me not to reach inside my purse to get my sunglasses when I’m so blinded that I’m unable to walk down the steps. That’s generally when my fiercest opponents have shown up to grab my elbow and guide me down the steps. It’s just this thing that happens to me in Columbia’s marble halls. I’ve learned to rely upon that magic and I am grateful to it. It’s a blessing to my life that we all understand that, tomorrow, we’ll go at each other hammer, precedent, and tongs.) You can make all the lawyer jokes you want, and I will laugh at most of them, but I’ve stripped myself naked with the work, bathed in Justica’s waters, stood in the moonlight in her sacred court, and placed her herbs upon my brow — and I’ll cry whenever I damn well want to.
Professor West’s quote makes we pretty weepy.
The Occupy movement, which has now gone well beyond Wall Street, is getting almost zero press coverage. Contrast that to the obsessive coverage given to every small gathering of teapartiers or, even, to the Arab Spring uprisings, and get back to me on the “liberal media” meme. (One of the Right’s cleverest tropes.) The “We Are the 99%” slogan seems to be catching on. The movement comes to DC next weekend. Old woman that I am, I’m cooking for a houseful. I realized a year or so ago that I only have a few marches left in me. Meanwhile, I can cook, house, bathe, and succor.
Robin Morgan famously said, “I want a women’s revolution like a lover.” I think that’s how a lot of us feel about the need for a grass-roots revolution against the damage that patriarchy and capitalism are doing to our world. I want a people’s revolution as desperately, as physically, as hungrily as I’ve ever wanted any of my human lovers. Do you? Is this a cause where sex magic is the best avenue?
*It’s a blessing to be easily pleased; you spend a lot more of your time grinning merrily. One thing I really, really love is Autumn grasses, the kind that grow by the side of the road and are now seeding madly. They range in color from deep purple, to gold, to brown, to rust and they have so many lovely shapes and forms. I bless them at every stoplight. Is there something simple like this that always makes you smile?
*In The Woman Magician: Revisioning Western Metaphysics from a Woman’s Perspective and Experience, Brandy Williams says:
Monotheistic religion envisions deity in male terms. The divine feminine requires polytheism — there must be at least two aspects to deity. [Not sure she’s right; the exact equivalent would be to envision deity in only female terms.] Witchcraft accomplishes this. . . . That said, I turn the [G]oddess candlestick [which depicts Maiden, Mother, Crone] looking for an image that corresponds to my experience, and I do not find it. This image represents female power in terms of human fertility: pre-fertile, pregnant, post-fertile. As a childless mature woman, neither young, old, nor mother, I do not find my place here. The [G]oddess Babalon, the unbridled lover, fits me more accurately. When I think of myself in terms of any [G]oddess, she is that [G]oddess.
I think that Williams makes a good point. For more and more women, the Maiden/Mother/Crone image (and it’s the image that drew me deeply into Witchcraft) just isn’t enough, even when we try and “stretch” the role of Mother to mean “mothering” organizations, art, protests, businesses, etc. I was a mother at 17 and was, although one never really stops “mothering,” done with that job before I was 40. And, as women live well beyond the crone years, we need a new paradigm. Wicca doesn’t define men via their roles as youth, father, grandfather. They’re greenmen, hunters, Cerrenous, the High Priest, the Magician, the Fool, the Divine Lover. They have a lot of roles that have little to do with their reproductive role, even as many modern men become more and more involved in actually raising their children. (I’m wildly and deeply proud of what a wonderful father Son is. And, yet, it’s not his only role. Nor is “mother” my wonderful DiL’s only role.) And, as women live longer, and as more and more of us spend little or no time (on this overpopulated planet) birthing and raising children, it makes less and less sense to define us primarily via our reproductive roles. (And, no, Aunt, while it’s wonderful, also isn’t enough.) That’s a huge difference, an amazingly-wide disconnect, from the roles most women lived when they were maidens, mothers who died by 40, crones if they were lucky. Will Wicca rise to the challenge and figure out how to handle this serious leap of biology? I hope so. This can be a wonderful time; not merely a time of turning our backs on an historical period. We’re called to live in a time when we deeply re-image the roles of women. Let’s go! Let’s get this right! Let’s not fail our daughters, granddaughters, great-granddaughters, the young and old women of the 29th Century!
*September is often one of the best months here in Columbia’s district. It’s a time when we get cool weather, sunny days, low humidity. This year, that wasn’t the case. Most days were overcast, rainy, humid, and gray. October dawned cold, rainy, windy — not at all what we expect. As global climate change wraps her veils across the globe, we’re all going to have to learn to dance a different dance. I may or may not be too old to learn to love a different kind of Autumn in Columbia’s district. I’ve “known” to trust perfect Autumn weather ever since I was a v young girl of sixteen, going to visit my boyfriend in his dorm at CU in Autumn, and reveling in the crystal nights. Today, I ran a bunch of errands in the windy rain and stopped at an odd store to buy our G/Son a crystal, something he’s been, perhaps not too oddly, asking for for a few weeks. I can still smell October 1972. I think that I will until I dance between the veils. My great granddaughters may view this month as mushroom month. I send blessings forward to them. It was the crystal month for me.