and just like that .... a thought

I was just thinking of god and mother gods and the whole parthenon of these entities.
Its always seemed curious to me that god has the appearance of an elderly, sometimes friendly, often cantankerous grandfather type.

Such a patriarchal image must relate to what we both want and fear from our fathers. perhaps, in a culture which denies many men avenues for the gentle expression of love, a loving father is a dream and wish rather than an everyday experience. ((I apologise to those of you who are loving fathers but this is not about the particular))

Perhaps in the matriarchal culture which created the  mother goddess - things were similar but different. perhaps the image of a loving and nurturing mother was the dream in the presence of strong and powerful women.

perhaps matriarchal rule is similar to patriarchal to most subjects - a ruler is a ruler is a ruler.

We posit a very real difference because we want there to be one

matriarchal cultures

seem so very seductive but I wonder if they would be so very different. The problem we have is the synthesis between patriarchy and commercialisation and commodification - the mix with matriarchy might not be so very different - if the overwhelming function remains the aggregation of money and power. I hesitate to think what a powerful matriarch would be in that situation.

I love the matriarchy of elephants and the idea they talk as they walk and they walk at the pace of the smallest walker.

perhaps that is the fundamental difference between patriarchal and matriarchal leadership.

the patriarch will achieve a set objective and will count and mourn the cost but consider it the price that has to be paid. the matriarch will consider the objective and will ensure everybody gets there.

When my sister died I wrote this poem. It was for her death and mine.

Song for the Triple Goddess

Death, when

you come for me

I'll be waiting.

My sons have taken the cloth from

my loom, folded it neatly

and put it in the basket I wove last

fall.

My favourite skirts,

folded in the other, are scented with

the bay leaves I collected.

My grandson has gifted me

the stick he hasn't finished carving.

It's beauty lies

within the wood still.

My daughters have washed my skin,

perfumed and plaited my hair; flowers tucked in my braid

remind me

winter is still not

quite here.

Death, we can sit awhile and drink together.

There is a brew there in the third basket.

We made it this summer.

Visions and pathways.

I am not lost.

In my hand I have the flower

I gave my love

when, as children,

we looked into each other

and saw who we were

and were to be.

he kept it.

I leave him the laughter and tears

of our life.