The Grandmother Shawl

 

For a while now I have been a little anxious about the idea that I will become “a little old lady”, eventually.   I lacked a clear vision of my role in my own life going forward into the future.    

I bought a shawl, because I liked it and it called to me.  A friend (who is a generation older than I) said it looked like a hug from a grandmother.  I agreed, but my mind responded, “and that would be me.”

I began to think about the image that I hold of the “little old lady,” the grandmother.  Not my grandmothers, nor my own mother but, the archetype, the Goddess as Grandmother.

I was surprised to discover that the image I hold is one that I find beautiful.  Yes, she is soft and round, yes, she is gray and pale, yes, she is not as strong or limber as a young woman but, she is also resilient, and steadfast.  She is comforting and loving and fierce. 

She knows herself, and how to hold space for those she loves.  She has wisdom born from personal experience and can offer sound guidance and support.  She knows how to listen and how to teach others to stand in their own power.  And she knows how to stand in hers.

She is not overtly sexual in the way that our society thinks of the sexual woman but, she has sexual power that arises from her understanding of her own desires and her lack of shame in enjoying the sensual, physical pleasure that she can offer to her lovers.  I had worried a little that my lovers might no longer feel sexual desire for me when I indeed become this “grandmother” but, I find this image to be intriguing and mysterious, and yes, desirable.  If I find this image desirable, I trust that they will as well.  the need for love is not exclusive to the young.  The gifts of love, sex, pleasure and healing are not only to be found in the young either.

So this shawl holds the vision, of the woman I am becoming, the woman I look forward to becoming, the woman I already am.  And I wrap it around myself when I need a hug from the Grandmother, or to embrace this vision of my future.  And I find it very comforting. 

Blessed Be. 

Exploring Masculine Gender...

I am a woman, a queer woman but, a woman nonetheless.  Yet there are parts of me that are masculine in nature, that express the Divine Masculine within me.  The Teacher, the Healer and, the Poet to name a few.  I worship the Masculine God with as much devotion as I do the Feminine Goddess.  I find myself more strongly connected to my male ancestors and to my father’s bloodline but, I will never be a man in this lifetime.  

I study theories on male identity and psychology to better understand and relate to, to better serve, and love the men in my life.  I have a father, brothers (one passed on and one living) a son, a nephew, friends, lovers, housemates, coven-mates, tradition-mates, teachers, priests and elders.  I may someday have grandsons.  I want to support them and understand them as much as I am capable of. 

When I was a child, I hated wearing my brother’s hand-me-downs.  I hated having short hair.  But as a grown woman, I have become curious about just how it might feel to experience the world as someone of the male gender.   How does it feel to walk about in the world as a man?  How does it differ from the power I have as a woman?  How does the world treat a man differently from the way it treats me? 

I am considering an experiment, and a few of the men in my life, including a lover, are supportive of the idea.  I am going to find men’s clothing that fits and suits me, and we are going to go out into the world together, so that I can find out how it feels.  I find myself surprisingly excited to have this experience.  And deeply grateful for these precious companions and their unreserved support.

I will let you know how it goes. 

Adventures are good, new experiences are good, gaining better understanding of the men in my life is good, learning more about myself and the world is good too.

Queer

I have learned a lot about myself in the time since I began this exploration.  I began not knowing anything about where this journey would lead me.  The journey has had more than one unexpected turn and many uncomfortable and uneasy moments.  But I have indeed found a place where I know who I am and I am comfortable with all of who I am.

I have also discovered one word that feels right to describe my gender, sexuality and relationships.  Queer is not a word that the world at large would associate with me but, from my perspective, it is the one word that feels correct.

I am a cis-gendered female however; I do not feel that accurately describes my experience of gender.  Through this journey I have come to recognize that I have moments in my life when I prefer to express  female gender and times when I prefer to express male gender but, I no longer feel that binary definitions accurately express the truth of who I am. 

I am not truly hetero-normative in my sexuality either.  I have found that I am sexually drawn to people regardless of gender. My attraction is dependent upon the person and has no recognizable connection to any gender, or to defined gender.

I am polyamorous but in a structure that is not easily recognized.  I do not have primary or secondary relationships.  I do have committed relationships.  I love who I love, and I am committed to those whom I love.   I am loyal to those whom I love.  Each of my relationships is unique, as are each of my beloveds.  Gender, age, sexual identity, and sexual expression do not determine whom I love.

In my sexual expression, I am a switch.  I enjoy different experiences, many of which are seemingly contradictory, sometimes with the same partner.  I do not desire to be constrained by one role, or someone else’s narrow definition of any one form of expression.

Queer is a word that defies definition.  It is the one word that simply says “cannot be defined or constrained by definition.”   I like the word.  I claim the word.  It feels true, and more comfortable that any other.   I am queer and I am happy.

Sex and the Body Sacred

I am a sex-positive person.  I am a Witch, my religion is a fertility religion, the “Great Rite” is literally the act of sex.  So it should not come as a surprise that I consider sex to be a sacred act.

Not just the act of intercourse between a man and a woman, but every consensual sexual expression is a sacred act, and a magickal one, if the persons involved choose to make it so.

Our sexuality is an essential part of who we are as human beings, no matter what that means for any one of us.  Having the freedom and safety to express that part of who we are, as we choose, is essential to living a full and happy life.  (And for the record, this applies to those who are asexual as well.) 

Our bodies are the physical part of the living being that is us.  They are no less a part of our power, or our magick, than our minds, hearts, souls, and spirits. What we eat, how we sleep, move, work, play, and how we express ourselves, our gender and our sexuality are all important to honoring our bodies.  Our bodies are sacred.  Without them we would not have the means to live and learn and interact with any of the worlds.  To be “incarnated” is to be “in-bodied”.

It stands to reason then, that our bodies are to be honored as sacred, just as the Earth is Sacred.   And the expression of those bodies, our sexuality, whatever that is most truly for each person, is also to be honored as sacred. 

Knowing ourselves, and our bodies, and our boundaries, and our truth, is essential to living our lives on this Earth with integrity.

the woman...

I am a cis-gendered human woman.  I am daughter, sister, aunt, birth-mother and devoted Nanna to my biological family. I am pagan and pansexual, polyamorous and autonomous.  I am a loyal and devoted friend and lover, if sometimes emotionally unavailable.  I am a talented massage therapist and I am no longer capable of conceiving or bearing a child.

I am a middle aged, middle-class, educated, privileged, suburban white girl who likes dresses and flowers.  I work as a banker to pay the rent and I live alone with my cat. I hate debt of any kind and never again want to own a house. I am helpful to have around in a crisis and, when someone is needed to get things done including the dishes, or if there is a need for a level of organization that borders on OCD.  Or if you need a tour guide to the local thrift stores.

I am a feminist and a registered Libertarian and sympathetic to warriors, revolutionaries, anarchists and mystics. I have a love of architecture and I believe that Libraries are the most sacred institution in any society.  I am a lover of books and fairy-tales, music and dance, football and baseball and boxing, muscle-cars and motorcycles, and poetry.  I am a writer and a poet. 

I love coffee and chocolate and all night diners.  I have a sweet tooth and a strong dislike for just about all vegetables but, just as strong a feeling that it is immoral to throw away food. I have diabetes and scars and tattoos and very little physical grace. I can spend days on end without human contact but, I never drink alone. 

I can daydream anywhere at any time. I sleep in every morning I can and sometimes I stay up all night reading just because I want to.  I love Christmas and, I can fall in love if I allow myself to, and I can survive anything.  

Instinct of Home

Instinct of Home...the things we say while fucking…

When you were fucking me,

and I was begging you to cum,

you asked me “why?” 

I remember you asking,

I remember having no language to answer.

All I could do was beg.

In that moment,

I needed you buried deep,

I needed the gift of your potential,

Even though it could never take root as a child,

I needed you to plant your seed inside me.

I needed the energy of your release,

Like a crust of bread to a starving beggar,

Like air to a drowning man,

In that moment,

I needed to please you.

I needed to be owned by you,

I needed to be your bitch.

You said later that I referred to my body as Home,

and again you asked me “why?” 

I have been trying to find a way to reconcile 

the desperate need I felt and

the language I found to answer.

As the Earth is our Home and the body of our Mother

Home is an instinct beyond the language I have.

Home is where life is,

where needs are met, 

where sustenance is provided,

Shelter and comfort 

warmth and light,

strength and stability 

from which to go forth,

A haven when rest and sleep and healing are needed,

a place of safety and belonging and pleasure,

Home is a place you own and possess by inhabiting it.

A place that is not home,

is empty space 

without life,

or warmth 

or light

abandoned 

un-owned,

without purpose.

Even a grave has purpose,

to the dead who own it.

That instinct is older than my language.

It is primitive knowing from lifetimes ago,

encoded into my body’s  DNA,

that my body exists to please another,

that it has no purpose

that survival is not assured

that it is not completely justified

without a child in my womb

or a cock in my cunt.

but, I am a woman of my time, 

and  you should never take too seriously

the things we say while fucking ...

It's the little things...

I wear a uniform everyday to work.  It isn’t horrible but, I hate it.  I hate that it has no color and that the part I have no choice in is a man’s sweater vest.  I grew up wearing dresses only for church and school.  The rest of the time I wore my big brother’s hand-me-downs which eventually were handed down to my little-brother.  I was not a tom-boy.  I hated wearing boy’s clothes, and the haircut my mother gave me when I was six (short like a boy’s).   

It’s not that I don’t get it.  She was a stay-at-home mom with three kids and valued all that was practical and thrifty. She put a great deal of love and time into the things she made for me but, sewing new clothes for me had to be reserved for school and church.  Nevertheless, I never felt right wearing my brother’s clothes, and I hate most of the photos of my childhood because I look like a little boy and I remember how wrong that felt.

I like wearing different clothes to express myself.  I still like to wear different clothes to see how it feels, to try-out facets of identity that I am exploring, to try-on different ways of being a woman.  It occurs to me what it must be like to be a trans-gendered child, to be stuck in a body and expected to dress and behave in a way that does not agree with your true self. 

It may seem to be a small and petty thing, to wear clothes.  They are simply a means to protect our bodies from the elements but, I have always experienced them as an expression of self, or an exploration of identity.  And that is no small thing. 

It really is the “little things” that make a difference…

The Change

Fruits of the Crone by Brian Froud

It happened so quietly, like some ninja in black, slipping out the window onto the rooftop of the house, down to the yard and past the wall into the night, in some old black and white movie on Saturday morning when I was a kid.  When I woke this morning I realized it had left me and I had never noticed.  I can’t seem to remember when, just that it is gone now. 

Change happens to us all the time.  But when the first one happened, I noticed and I expected to be more aware of this one.  I was expecting it, I knew it would come but, I thought that I would notice somehow.  That there would be some sort of symptom to tell me that it had happened.

Fourteen years ago I conceived a child for the last time.  I miscarried six weeks later and the following week I allowed a surgeon to sever the pathway.  Conception would never again be possible.  I have regretted that decision and grieved for the loss.  But my body was never really aware of what my mind knew.  It did not change who I was.   This is different.

Even if it were still mechanically possible, my body has reached that state where it is no longer capable of creating or gestating life.  That possibility is really over.  And I have a choice to make.

I can grieve.  But I have already done that.  For years I did that.  It doesn’t feel right to grieve for this change.  It feels as though grieving would be saying that my life is over, that there is no reason for me to keep on living, that love and pleasure and joy are no longer possible for me, that I have no purpose and nothing to give or look forward to.  And this doesn’t feel like that to me.  That actually comes as quite a surprise for indeed, I expected that it would.

What this does feel like is a new life.  Like I have been reincarnated again, but with all of the knowledge and wisdom and understanding gained in the previous life intact.  Like I get to start over without having to start at the bottom of the staircase.  It feels like I spent my life until now climbing a tower to reach a door and now I have opened the doorway to find a new world, that the adventure is just beginning and I have lost nothing, like I can start the journey with all the tools I could possibly need and the knowledge of how to use them.

It seems so very strange but, it feels like a cause for celebration.  I give thanks for the change.

Why any of this even matters...

Why does who I am matter?  If I know “myself” in most contexts, what does it matter if a part of me remains hidden even to myself?  Is it really all that important?  What difference could it possibly make to anyone?

This past Tuesday morning my daughter gave birth to a baby girl.  She arrived eight weeks before she was expected.  Much of who she is has already been decided…we are all just unaware of it as yet. For the next ninety years or so, she will be exploring and discovering and testing and failing and trying again to discover who she is and how to express that to the world. (I will only be around for the first forty-five or so.)  Some of who she is might be what others expect, some will probably not be.

I never want her to feel that she needs to hide from herself or from anyone else.  I never want her to feel ashamed or afraid of any truth about her own identity, gender, sexuality or spirituality.  I want her to be free to express her love and her beauty and her happiness in any way that she feels is right for her.  I want her to know always just how amazing she is. 

If I cannot embrace my own secrets, my own desires, if I cannot challenge my own hidden truths and bring them into the open where I can see them and embrace them and express them, how can I ever guide her in doing the same?

She will no doubt surprise me, but I pray that I will never fail her.  She is why any of this matters.  I want her to know her Nanna as a fearlessly, shamelessly happy woman who knows herself and loves with warmth, generosity and abandon.

I thank the Gods that I still have time to become that woman.

some thoughts on gender

I am a Female human being.  I have never doubted that.  Truth be told I am a feminist.  That is to say that I believe I have as much right to legal status, education, property ownership and self-determined destiny as anyone.  But more to the point, I am female not only biologically and legally but internally.  I have never felt conflict between my biological gender and my true self.  There are those that do.  

I believe that the mind and soul and heart of a person is the place that the truth of gender lies.  I believe that no one has the right to an opinion regarding another human beings gender identity.  If someone identifies as female, they are my sister.  And that is something worth rising up to defend.  If someone identifies as male, they are my brother and they too deserve to be defended, the male of the species is noble and honorable and deserving of respect. 

I know where I stand and who I am regarding gender.  But that is not the entirety of the issue.  There are aspects of gender that the world consistently has an opinion about and those are not so easily ignored.  As a woman I am relatively “normal” in the eyes of the outside world.  I appear to be a middle-aged, privileged, educated, middle-class, suburban, white girl, monogamous and heterosexual.  “Nothing to see here people, she conforms to the norm.”  Perhaps slightly odd politically (I am a Libertarian and have been since I registered to vote at the age of 18).  Feminist of course, aren’t all American women?

But I do find conflict in that “norm”.  Because I love dresses and I loved playing “mother” and I found power in the stories of the women in my story books.  And because there are parts of my nature that I am discovering that do not fit how the world sees me, that do not fit the expectations of an educated, feminist, female of my generation.

It is those conflicts that I need to explore and to reconcile.  Not to the outside world but rather with my own identity.  Because somewhere along the way, I bought into the expectations and I am no longer willing to reject my true self in order to comply, in order to avoid conflict.