in issue four
Scintillations
Purple Bikini
Saraswati
Change In Air
Sarah's Gift
Fairy Chimes
Real Dreams
Xena
Writer?
Younger Self
Fledgling Artiste
Goddess Poetry
No McD's In Cuba
AF Photographers
Goddess On Phone
Moody Girl
Met The Goddess
To My Mother
Life Changing Books
Girl Crushes
Universe Spoke
Visualize This!
Contributors

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future issues
Issue Five: Bravery
Issue Six: Friendship

previous issues
Issue One: Change
Issue Two: Balance
Issue Three: Spring

"Look at this," he said.  I took my eyes off his face, turning my head an inch to the left, where he held my hand high above the spray of shower water.  "From the fur under here, all the way to these wonderful things at the end.  This is the arm of a Goddess."

He's right, of course.  Why do I think that?  Because, for me, Goddesses are ordinary women.

Once upon a time, in another country, in a state of meditation, I went searching for the Goddess.  She found me at my safe perch in the crotch of a tree.  She spoke to me with infinite wisdom, absolutely accepting, calm, wise.  As I let myself feel her tender voice enfold me, I noticed something familiar about her.  She had my face, my body, at her core was abiding love.

I wanted to be more like her, so I studied the gown she was wearing, and made it for myself.  And even though I wasn’t dressed that day in the shower, he saw that I was the Goddess. 

The day before, as he told me stories of his childhood self, a fifty year old memory caught his throat.  Tears came as he recognized for the first time a kindness done by one of his elementary school teachers.  I went to him, stood behind his chair, kissed his tears and rocked him slightly.  He wept into my heart.  My heart filled up and overflowed to my uterus.  Sister organs, beating, contracting, they are the only ones made of like muscle in a woman's body.

My uterus filled up next.  Wearing a skirt and no underwear, and in the flow of a particularly lavish period, I felt my tampon spill out as I heard the gift of his telling.  I couldn't think of letting go of him as he offered his story to me.  At the end, there was another offering: a fine pool of my blood on the floor.

We looked at it, already dark around the edges.  It was my fluid in exchange for his, transformed by my core of love. Some might think a Goddess is an untouchable ideal, but I know this:  Goddesses are real women, and I have met the Goddess and she is me.