Category Archives: Goddess

women in the bible

Just in case you’re curious why I’m all loving of the Wicca & Goddess faiths and am a Unitarian Universalist, this sums it up pretty neatly. How cool is it that my church sent this out on MySpace?

First, my own quick notes:

1. I’m not sure I agree that all organized religion has oppressed women, but all monotheistic religions seem to have this history.

2. Thoughts on the whole “suffering in childbirth thing”

OK. It hurts, but seriously, it is not unliveable, anaesthesia-necessitating pain. I had an exceptionally hard birth with no epidural and can very confidently say that these pain-relieving measures are unnecessary in a normal birth and the risk factors by far outweigh the benefits- again, for a normal birth.

The pain is definitely affected by the legacy of woman-negative religious teachings that are referred to later in this document· Fear is a huge part of the pain- we tense up and fight our bodies. (Get a midwife and a Doula! They’ll help enormously!) I propose that rather than to complain that religious fanatics have denied women anaesthetics, we instead recapture the normalcy and beauty of natural birth.

3. I feel a little need to qualify the whole Freedom from Religion stance here. I deeply respect this viewpoint, in no small part because of these examples to follow. It’s just weird though, because I’m pretty much all about re-creating religion in a woman-positive and life affirming way, with a healthy dose of intellectualism and skepticism coming along for the ride.

OK…. enjoy:) Continue reading

sainthood + baby pagan prayers

Did you know I’m eligible for sainthood? Yes. I am. I’m pretty sure that mothering a child for 23 months, 6 days, 4 hours, and eleven minutes without doing any of the following qualifies one for sainthood:

  1. Losing my goddamned mind
  2. Slapping, spanking, biting, or otherwise hurting the child
  3. Killing, castrating, or divorcing her father
  4. Selling her on eBay

She is in a spitting phase, she has a cold, we did not sleep, she will not eat, she will not be anywhere but my arms or [out]”side.”

Speaking of religion… she insisted we say grace tonight before she ate adamantly refused to eat dinner. I did a generic improv thing with generic “Lord and Lady,” which always makes me feel so old skool trad Wiccan. Which I am not. But I was charmed that she likes to say a meal blessing- the grandies have taught her.

Google turned this up:

Mother of Plenty, bless this bread
Father of the Grain, lend your seed
Let it nourish heart and head
Let it nourish thought and deed
Let its breaking be a spell
That hungry mouths be fed as well
And let its eating keep us free
As is our will
So mote it be!

Cute. I like. My searches for bedtime blessings yielded more poetry and made me say “aw…” and leak breastmilk they were so precious. (Argh! Where are they? I saved them… Oh. I’m a dork: My Docs->babybookofshadows.doc) OK. Look how adorable:

Day is done, it’s time for bed
Goddess bless my sleepy head
Earth and Water, Air and Fire
Bring gentle dreams as I retire
When the morning sun does rise
God will bless my open eyes

Now I lay me down to sleep,
Please help me learn my world to keep.
To guard the air and skies of blue,
The oceans, lakes and rivers too.
Save the mighty forest lands,
The plains, the shores, the desert sands.
Protect all creatures, wild and free,
In air, on land, and in the sea.

divine, the

I am reading Eat Pray Love. Only I am not. I am devouring, relishing, tasting, experiencing it.

I am Eating it, Praying it, Loving it.

I’ll write a response to it when I finish, I just have to! But not a review. Would you review the Bible? Well, I would… yes, I would, so it’s a poor metaphor. I’m having the intensity of reading experience I had reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. Beneath the artistic awe and the total absorption in the story, there is part of me screaming and jumping up and down “I WANT TO WRITE JUST LIKE THIS. ONLY NOT, BECAUSE LIKE ME. WHICH IS SIMILAR. OR WILL BE. BUT STIIIILLLLL. I WANNA WRITE!!!!!!!” So I’m thinking a lot while reading about a book idea I conceived a few years ago that is very, very groovy. Oh wow. Idea.. maybe NaNoWriMo? Whew: scary. (And by the way, ladies- how in the name of Johnny Depp-see below- did you do this with toddlers in your home? I can only barely fucking write a blog post with Molly here.)

When God is mentioned in a traditional context or almost any male deity context*, I approach the concept with Athiest Mind.

If Goddess is referred to, with a specific femaleness, I respond with Deep Primal Cavewoman Awe Brain/Heart/Soul.

I just sort of noticed that today. I’m kind of stubbornly refusing to delve into the athiest brainiac chick vs. moon shreiking pagan witch mama, because it pretty much utterly fails to matter. If Persephone is a story that makes me imagine that some deep part of me resonates with this lovely ancient myth, who gives a rat’s ass if She is Real or she is a metaphor?

*Exceptions: mention Dionysos, and I respond much like I do to Maggie Gyllenhaal (click it. Seriously. Speaking of Cavew Woman.. grrroowwlll….)and Johnny Depp and full moons. Mention Ganesha, and my soul immediately drops to it’s aether knees, assumes the child’s pose and tears up in grateful reverence. Mention Hades and I think at once of a vision thing I had once with a very specific ritual I was supposed to do and have never done. I kind of think I should do the damn thing.


One more burst of sexual energy for the Sexography GBBMCMMCGVBVC… whatever campaign :p I spent some of my birthday money on a frame for the new piece, and after the printing costs I’m going to donate what’s left to RAINN. It’s not a lot but it adds up. Throw in a few bucks with me? Mistress Daisy says give til it hurts feels good.

So, yeah. Behold: vagina art! Just like the good old art school days. You should have seen my Grandma trying to be polite about big, messy red Goddess paintings with giant boobs and bulgy vulvas.


The thing with creativity is, once you start that little wheel going, and I refer here in my own WiccaDu way to the chakra, that baby just starts churning of its own momentum.

And, being the rooty deep core of all yumminess that it is, dear and delicious muladhara is the center of both sex and creativity. And I seem to have awoken mine, and so it goes that as the baby naps I create Sacred Pussy Art and am crushed when Bu tells me we will have company tonight. He was so getting laid. Perhaps if he had known he would have declined his Beer, Steak, & Testosterone Night. *shrug*


This post is a celebration of the Sexography project in support of RAINN– the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network. RAINN provides information, education, outreach and other services. Among its programs, created and operates the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1.800.656.HOPE. Please consider a donation to RAINN. If you donate, please mention the Daisybones blog and note “GBBMC:08″ in the “donation in honor of” section (in addition to anyone you want to honor, including yourself.) This will allow project-related donations to be tracked, and every donation sent from my blog will be (to me) regarded as honoring my mother and all others who were kept silent. Thank you.

i’m possessed with a strange and sudden need to know where Saturn is in my natal chart

I’m thinking if I fully explain this I’ll get a severe spasm of one-handed-typer’s-carpal-tunnel. So, I’ll just throw out a chain of thought and you can feel free to follow it or me utterly lost.

I’m reading Eat. Pray. Love. It’s stirring my mind wildly + beautifully.
She studies at an ashram where they “allow” you- this wording directly influenced by my newfound loathing of zen meditation- to use a mantra
I remember Om Namah Narayana that used to stay in my mind for days on end when I listened to Prodigy’s Fat of the Land (love!)
I Google the chant, and find lots of incredible facts that resonate, including this phrase at Wikipedia:

This mantra is most powerful remedy for those who has atmakaraka either Saturn or its dispositor is Saturn.

Another interpretation of the word Narayana sees “Nara” meaning human and “Ayana” read as direction/goal. Hence Narayana refers to the “direction of a human” (or the one that helps a human to his/her goal) — that towards moksha.

I then Google “saturn atmakaraka” and am overwhelmed with information the necessitates a much deeper knowledge of astrology than I possess.
Then I remember hearing The Grudge for the first time, and well… every time and grokking that Saturn is an important thing striking cords in my and must be addressed.
But it hasn’t been.
And the symbol. I love his glyph.

But suddenly I want to go look up my birth chart again and then sit chanting for a few hours and see what the hell Saturn has to tell me and ask him WTF a Greco-Roman deity is doing hijacking my Hindu mantra synchronicities.

I feel a need to explain my feelings about astrology but I really can’t without diving headfirst into a complex and labyrinthine diatribe about mysticism/pantheism/atheism/skepticism/transcendence and I really don’t want to write a novel. My shiny new tagline can actually pretty well sum up the whole self-contradictory mess.

I really need to consolidate categories. Spirituality would be a nice neat box. Or, well, with this brain, probably not.

And also, holyshitsquee: Maynard James Keenan is an Aries too.

tiny temple

Here is a tiny mouse art doodle for Temple, the new daughterblessing for darling Urban Earth Mama Brooke. I’m doodling this everywhere and it finally struck me today that it’s a uterus with tubes and a little embryo. (Simultaneously, it’s Erzulie.)

Temple is such a pretty name I swooned when I read her introduction at her grandmother Busha’s blog:) I can’t wait to read the story of her birth.

time and blood


I’m feeling you so vividly right now. The spring is our time, the two of us wild and stoned in the forest clearing. Aries and laughing and twin skirts blowing in the breeze, twin souls like Demeter and Persephone- firmly, solidly mother/daughter too. The sisterhood never took precedence over your wings holding me and your nest making roots in my past. When you first fell ill you held us- two adult children with a head on each shoulder curled in your arms, quiet for a few moments, startled by the fright and then deciding as one to to laugh and be blind brave warriors staring at impossibility.

Spring is time to remember life, and it’s always that spring day like a film of us- a couple years before you died. I’d been home long enough to feel real again. My hair had grown back. The next year you would brush and braid it like you did when I was small. We were in the forest at Our Shelter. It is, that day, a Dionysian ampitheatre. It is one of our birthdays but it doesn’t matter which; they are one day and twenty-three years apart and after I’m grown we celebrate them together. We are high and buzzed on contraband beer in the state park. Everyone around me is my mother- you, my aunt, and your best friends. I’m the youngest one there by a whole generation and I’m at once one of you and your collective baby. I run around the field like a girl, and then we all swing together at the playground.

Later our shelter is a familiar temple where we remember you (your ashes flew into the wildflowers behind the wall with the hearth) and when Bonnie Raitt’s voice comes through the stereo it is like your voice speaking to me and my knees fall out and the Xanax I took to numb me falls to the bottom of me and I’m suddenly, starkly clear and sober and in deep, unspeakable pain.

This is the moment Bu says he fell in love with me, or the moments after when I raise back to my feet and go out in the field again and read you a poem from The American Night. He will hold me aftwerwards on random nights when the foggy thing that allows me to cope with the grief lifts and the reality of your death pierces me and I cry so hard it shakes the bed. He’ll watch and witness as the nights very slowly space apart until there is a mellowed, mature sadness that is livable. He’ll be such a part of my comfort I’ll worry in a tiny voice deep down if I could have lived this experience without him. He’ll hold my hand and then bind his hand to mine, then fill me with your grandchild.

She is the anchor to the present that finally pulls me out of false time, where I was stuck in the small part of life when you were less you, losing yourself slowly to the cancer. My daughter pulls me into now, and in doing it helps me find the parts of then that are healthy and colorful and good. She brings you into me like a gentle, welcome possession and this makes my self more solid and strong. Somehow the two of you hold me between past and future and this is a picture of where when who I am in time and blood.