Early morning and a disconcerting wind whips and crashes outside my window. Trees sway, and the last of the red, tenacious leaves finally tear away from the branches and swirl to the ground. A front is moving in, pulling the temperatures down. Take note: The goddesses are awake and they are pissed. The cold and fury of the storm is calling.
“Stay away,” does not come in whispered tones, but in a roar. “Stay away” from the toxic blustering of power-hungry politicians whose gluttony cannot be quelled. Power is the false prize of the overly-entitled. Service is the antidote to the poison of apathy. Service is the action with which we bandage and soothe the injustices of the world. Service feeds the heart, leaving no room for the ugliness of greed. The winds capture the shrouded secret of my selfishness, exposing the naked edges. The goddesses are awake and they are pissed.
We live sick and isolated from each other. As if the political divide were not enough, a pandemic too keeps us wondering who it’s safe to be around, and who to trust. Latching the windows and locking the door cannot keep away the winds of this discontent. An offering must be made, because the goddesses are awake and they are pissed.
I only have an awkward love to give, to place upon the altar of ancient women who rattle my bones with cold wind and rage; to honor the angels who make me shudder when they stretch their wings. A distant drumbeat sounds: “Wake up. Wake up. Let your breath mingle with ours. Blind yourself to the arrogance of being right and trust your inner site.”
The goddesses are awake and they are pissed. How then, shall I prepare for the coming storm?