Earth Day.  As I take stock of the ways in which my household could improve our use of resources both personal and natural I can’t help but take in the symbolic feminine imagery of a “Mother Earth”.  Few relics of the Divine Feminine have survived this modern age, particularly in the main stream culture.  But it is rarely argued that the planet which bears our existence, weathers our destructive impulses, and shelters us even from our own consequences is archetypally feminine.  The symbolism for me is personal.

We have a culturally self destructive relationship with the feminine.  As our “Mother Earth” she is at once revered and ravaged.  A mother one moment, and a whore the next.  This duality frames much of our relationship to the feminine.  There appears to be a haunting impulse among ourselves to destroy that which we can not own or bend to our desire.  We force ourselves upon the Earth and she yields what bounty she has to offer.

But, not even a whore lies down forever.  Repairing the relationship with our planet requires repairing the feminine identity within ourselves.

Painting from Denver Canopy Airport

“I think God was a beautiful dreamer…” ~ my 5 year old daughter, The Alchemistress

As Matriarch of The Burrow I am received with certain deference(s).  For example, when the daughters converge in our dressing room the Boomer gets first chair at the vanity table, then Gen X and Gen Next daughters.  Like position “chairs” of an orchestra, under conduction of legacy, we move in order despite protests of “But I’m almost finished!” or “I have an order to what I need to do and you  just ruined it!”  Their concert of rolling chairs yields to my entry.

I get the green chair closest to the hairdryer, the curling iron, the flat iron, and the clock named Moshi.  Flashing colors and replying “Good Morning” to my greeting, Moshi reminds us that we are all once again, late.  We step up the tempo, exchanging shoes and jeans and last minute approvals of what is presentable to the outside world.

One last peer into the mirrors we stand, three generations staring back at us before we move in and out of various exits.  Like meercats we bob in and out of the burrow: retrieving the forgotten phone, bluetooth or homework page, before the dust settles and the dogs can no longer hear our cars down the road.

I may be naive, but I believe I have stumbled upon the antithesis of mediation.  If the objective was to take a rather chatty and comfortable couple and antagonize them separately until neither could see straight, then she performed beautifully.  There are a host of things, both reasonable and unreasonable, upon which my ex The Politician and I do not agree.  Unfortunately, the only common ground we found yesterday was that that meeting was a tragic waste of time.

Thought for the day…

I’m not sure what’s hotter, when a man bounds out of bed to ease a fussy child before you wake or when he brushes cereal crumbs off the sheets as he climbs back in without once groaning about the children’s haphazard eating habits?

You wrap your arms around me and hold the Earth still.
The soft musk of your skin,
The heavy thud in your ribs that recalls the beat of tribal drums,
The charred taste of burning embers coats my tongue,
Lingers….
I slip away with you,
Down into the earthen hollow,
The center of myself.
Warm tangled flesh presses deep into the dampened soil.
On hands and knees you bore me back into the light.
Lover. Shaman. Bear.

Today I did not eat.  I afforded myself my ritual morning coffee because it is doctrine and because I had only slept a few sparse hours.  Tender Warrior spent the wee morning hours battling dream time rock golems, and I spent them soothing his battle scars.  I brewed the fresh Starbucks grounds into my favorite large blue mug, mixed in the heavy whipping cream, sugar free DaVinci syrup and topped it with more whipped cream.  It’s less beverage and more indulgent art.  I tumbled into the couch and tilted the contents of the mug to my lips.  As the sleepless haze lifted I remembered. Today I had committed myself to a fast.

I had been moved to such lengths in church Sunday morning as I heard our minister describing the moral implications of the congressional budget.  He touched briefly on the cuts that would leave women and children without food stamps.  He pledged his own fast in solidarity with those families and the religious leaders who shared his, our, vision of fair and responsible governance.  He called from the pulpit and my conscience answered.  But let’s leave the politics here.  The insight I gained from this small act of protest was far more personal.

By mid-day the gnawing in my belly had begun to garner my attention.  It was more antagonizing than agony, but my inability to ease it shifted my thoughts inward.  It occurred to me then as it does now.  The challenges in my life are the challenges of abundance.

I am loved and thus committed to those around me.

I am talented and thus needed.

I am intelligent and thus indulge my interests.

My home is warm and spacious and thus requires upkeep.

I am healthy and thus capable of lending my strength.

My stomach groaned reminding me that but for grace it could be otherwise.  Today I did not eat, yet I was nourished all the same.