#2322

The face Bast shows me is not young. Artists always depict Her with the ripe, vibrant bloom of the maiden, all hourglass curves and taut brown skin, but this isn’t how I see Her. My mother’s face is lined by little creases above Her brows, the corners of Her eyes, the edges of Her lips. Silver hairs glint in Her long black braids. There is a softness to Her breasts and waist like one who has given Her body to the birthing and raising of many children. Her beauty is not that of potent sexuality; it is the beauty of experience, of wisdom, of time and its endless flow of joys and sorrows. It is a beauty shaped and weighted by so much care that only a goddess could bear it – but oh, is She all the more beautiful for bearing it with pride!

#2305

She walks out of the waves and I see her clearly for the first time in all these years. Hers is the ferocity of the Morrigan. Hers is the hunger of Charybdis. Hers is the raw magic of Morgan le Fay. Hers is the proud independence of Lilith. She is nameless and yet of countless names from countless ages, most of them long lost to time. She is goddess and monster and witch; warrior and queen and oracle. Pale and sharp as the crescent moon, adorned by shadows sleek as wings, she is beautiful in the way of all deadly things.

Suddenly I am running across the wet sand and throwing myself against her, pressing my face into her breast as I cling to her. She smells of blood and brine. She wraps her arms around me, her hands sharp as a predator’s claws. Her smile shows gleaming fangs as she kisses the crown of my head. Beneath my damp cheek her ribs are a metal cage in which her heart beats a warsong.

I close my eyes and think, Drag me down into your dark, chill waters. Remake me; rebirth me. Teach me everything you know. Set me free. Her answer is to hold me tighter until it seems our hearts beat as one above the sound of crashing waves.

#2280

Hathor is the embodiment of energy in its most kinetic forms. Her eyes glitter with excitement; Her tightly coiled hair bounces with every movement; Her lips pull back in a wide, joyful laugh that shakes Her bosom and belly. She is constantly in motion, existing in the vibrant now with no burden of the past or care for the future. She is the yes to every maybe, the why not? to every why? Her unfaltering dance is a celebration of birth and rebirth that smites isfet and nourishes ma’at. To those in Her graces She offers access to this well of pure, primal energy if only you are willing to open yourself to its possibilities. In order to embrace Hathor’s vivacious energy you must lay down your fear – fear of failure, fear of change, fear of the unknown – and leap into the moment. You cannot fall with Hathor at your side, only fly.

#2264

She wears rubies crimson as menstrual blood
And garnets dark as the battlefield’s gore
She is Astarte, She is Aphrodite
She is Ishtar, She is Inanna!

She licks pomegranate lips with a dawn-pink tongue
And between her thighs grows a red, red rose
She is Babylon, She is Lilith
She is Venus, She is Inanna!

#2220

What did You do, O Queen of Heaven, for those three long days You hung dead on the hook? Christ probably ascended to Heaven and returned once more in his three days, and Odin must have been absorbing all the knowledge of the universe in his nine nights, so what about you? While Ninshubur wept at Your absence and Ereshkigal writhed in birthing pains, where were You? Were You in Your heavy body experiencing for the first time how mortal flesh rots and decays? Or were You, like Odin, stretching out Your consciousness to touch the vast unknown? If myth be true, death buys the most precious secrets, especially if that death be a willing one bargained for truth. You must have learned something, for there are times when I can see the white skull grinning beneath Your skin or all the darkness of the underworld condensed into Your heavy-lidded eyes. But that is the reward of walking Your road, isn’t it; what knowledge You gained in death can be revealed only if we make such a sacrifice ourselves.