I opened my arms to the millions of stars above my head and reached to stroke my fingers through the stream of the Milky Way splashed across the sky. “Where in the world is there for us?” I asked. “Where in the Universe?”
Side by Side
Evidently the only way to find the path
is to set fire to my own life.
~ Rabindranath Tagore
In the weeks following our argument, I took a deeper look at myself. Pele, with characteristic pyroclastic emotions and fire fountains of authenticity, was demanding it.
Like everyone, I have the Feminine and Masculine within me. While the archetypal Lover (Venus) is a powerful feminine force within me, I also express the energies of the Earth Mother (Gaia), the Creatress (Sarasvati), and the Shit-Disturber Transformer (Kali). Of the masculine archetypes active within me – such as the Rational Man (Apollo), the Magician/Sage (Merlin), the Ruler (King Arthur) – Mars the Warrior is predominant. So naturally when James came roaring at me like a lion, my own inner Mars was piqued.
What was my inner Mars defending? It must be my Ego: my sense of self defined by outer circumstances, the judge of everything (“either right or wrong, good or bad”), the role(s) I was “supposed” to uphold, the one who likes to take credit for achievements yet deny mistakes, the resister of change. This is not to underrate the valuable services the Ego provides: individuation, protection, demarcating boundaries and holding a container for the expression of the soul. But the Ego holds back growth and fights to reinforce the sides of the cask, even as the fermenting expression of my spirit expands and transforms, bursting the seams, which yes, felt uncomfortable. And unstoppable.
Like the power of Love. Like the attraction of the perfect beauty of Venus.
An archetypal epic was playing out within me, outpictured in my life:
The Lover can now convince the Warrior. The old soldier is on the verge of letting the battle go. War has raged for eons. With his wounds burning, he is losing the strength to hold on to that heavy sword, and losing the will to keep clunking around in the Ego’s armor, no matter how shiny and polished. Now, in his agonizing moments, when he is so hard to be around, so hard to approach, is when the Lover must stand there within striking distance of his anger, wearing the banner of LOVE. Opening her arms, she proclaims the glory of Life expressing itself as Soul and in Body. Love incarnate.
She commands Mars, “Clear the way! Hold the line! Let Love flow forth unmolested.” Even if the Ego lashes out, she cannot be harmed, for her aura of protection encircles her. It emanates out from her heart protecting her, and her Warrior, and the family, and the community, and the world.
Mars, while defending the Ego, has been pressed into service by the Dominator Culture. As long as a soul defines itself outwardly, it neglects its spiritual lineage and power. All that energy lying around unused can then be taken up by others, clever pretenders to the throne. Such misuse of energy only creates suffering.
Yet, suffering, a patient teacher, opens the heart of compassion. With this understanding, the Warrior can decide to forego inflicting hurt on others. He uses his considerable might to prevent the pangs of wrong action.
Venus always gives shelter to Mars. It used to be that she had to wait until he came to her doorstep. Now Venus can sally forth to fetch him, to get his attention. Sometimes it is necessary for Love to come through the door without knocking. Especially now, when the Patriarch is dying, and all the warriors are losing his leadership. The Patriarch birthed them into violence – with a smack on their tender bottoms, they were whisked away from the Mother. In crying isolation, the babies learned what a hard, unfeeling world it could be. They battled against it; they became warriors, just like the Patriarch knew they would. Now the warriors serve a dying master. The very extreme of their desperate position calls upon its opposite to right the balance. The warriors call for the Mother.
The hurt boy longs to lay his head in his mother’s lap, to feel her tender touch stroking his hair, to finally let fall the tears he has been holding back for what seems like forever.
Mars is strength made manifest. He calls up his power to face his Shadow demons, those tears that dressed up like enemies. This he must do, for beyond the clank of swordplay with the Shadow demons, he hears the rumbling of a much grander mobilization. The Wheel of Change is lurching forward, Earth is righting the imbalance, the Patriarch is dying. Mars provides the steadying force for the transition, taking his place alongside Venus. She is the one carrying the banner, the one leading the charge.
But he is the one making way for her nurturing influence. His staunch will is the bridge from isolation to acceptance. He barely notices the cuts from the sabers of resistance, for he holds his gaze steady, even if it means taking on the outwardly projected pain of others. Mars is tough enough to transmute secret dungeons of torture, nightmares of agony, and desperate acts of misguided vengeance.
“The clarion calls for kindheartedness,” Venus says. “Love will heal all the wounded. It is time for souls to claim their birthright. Love will open the way.” She reaches for him, and Mars gladly takes her hand. He knows that she needs his unfailing strength, and it flows from him to her, like a dog racing home to its family. With her compassion and his stamina, together they can meet the needs of the time of change.
How can Venus help Mars? How can Mars help Venus? In my heart’s theater, they both step, side by side, into the spotlight where their talents are recognized and put to best use. In the balance point between them, they both shine. All of Creation basks in the light of Sublime Force and Infinite Love, in the harmony of Mars and Venus, God and Goddess.
SEX IN THE LAND OF THE FREE
The Vagina Monologues is a play by Eve Ensler based upon accounts of real women – from victims of rape to lesbians to heterosexuals to a dominatrix sex worker – who tell their stories of sexual education, abuse, and liberation. The unifying theme is the vagina. From its first off-Broadway run in 1996, it has grown into a worldwide phenomenon that is produced annually to support V-Day, Eve Ensler’s non-profit organization striving to end violence against women. Ensler said she was intrigued by vaginas because of “growing up in a violent society...” and that “Women’s empowerment is deeply connected to their sexuality.” No wonder it stirred controversy nearly everywhere it played.
It was February, V-Day month, and the local Hawaiian women’s shelter was mounting a production of The Vagina Monologues. Having already seen the play in New York City and wanting to catch some of it again, I volunteered to work at the benefit. That is why I was standing at the table by the door of the Aloha Theater in Kainaliu. As the crowd poured out at intermission, a tall, well-dressed woman bumped into me, and turning to excuse herself, screamed when she saw me.
The woman was Mysterious Molly. “Becca!” she cried, and lurched to hug me. In our embrace, she gathered her wits enough to whisper to me, “My name is Giselle now.” Right next to her stood a handsome middle-aged man who was obviously accompanying her. We pulled apart to take a gander at one another, and I cried, “Giselle! It’s so good to see you again, Giselle!” I winked, and we both burst into laughter and tears. Molly sobbed into my ear, “I never thought I’d see you again, I thought you were lost from my life forever. I knew you left Puerto Rico, and I had no way of finding you.”
“My email, Giselle. You never wrote –”
Molly cut me off to introduce me to her date. I had to return to my post, so we exchanged phone numbers to plan our next meeting. As we parted, I squeezed her hand, saying, “I always knew we’d see each other again.” Her brown eyes, wet with tears and wide with sincerity, showed loving acknowledgment.
Our first meeting was followed by a happy reunion with James, as well as with her kids, who now numbered six. She had had another baby, a cutie pie named Delilah, by the Mystery Man, whose name she let slip one day. She called him Daniel. In fact, she revealed more details o
f her life than before, since she took our reuniting as a divine sign that we were meant to be lifelong friends. She had left Puerto Rico and moved to Hawai’i, then Canada, then Thailand, her kids in tow all the while – a continuation of her life on the run because of Daniel. Was he a drug kingpin? A Mafioso? Mysterious Molly would only say that she was on the Big Island trying to make it on her own – indicating that she had had it with Daniel – but they still talked often on the phone and she depended on him for a living stipend.
Molly was dating a man named Mark. While he was straight out of the Hawaiian country club scene – tanned, handsome, and a high roller – he was a married man, and I wondered why she was picking an unavailable partner with great potential for trouble. Was it her romanticism or naïveté? Or was she just biding her time, waiting for her soul mate Daniel?
Trouble was what she got: she discovered Mark was making sexual advances towards her 12-year-old daughter Adele, and had a history with underage girls. So horrified was Molly, so afraid he might hurt her family, that she decided to flee the island. James and I went to visit her one day, and the house was torn apart as Molly frantically packed bags.
“Molly, you’re panicking! Stop and think about your options. You can have this guy arrested!” James tried to commandeer the situation.
“You always run, Molly. You can change that pattern. Stay and we’ll help you,” I appealed to her. “Listen, remember the session with Zulma? Sexual abuse may run in your family. You can bring it all out into the light with this, and seek justice.”
I was referring to a healing session we had done in the pyramid underneath the grandmother and grandfather mango trees by the beach in Puerto Rico. Zulma was a Puerto Rican friend and santera, a buxom brown woman whose round face fully expressed her most sinister suspicions or shrieking delight. While in trance, Zulma detected a dark shadow from Molly’s past, a male relative who had molested her when she was a child. Although Molly had but a hazy recollection of the trauma, it did feel entirely possible to her. Zulma then performed a Santería exorcism of the dark ghost.
Molly stopped her packing and stood up. “James and Becca, I have to go. I’m in Hawai’i illegally, and I don’t want Adele – or the other kids – to have to go through the court process. Daniel divorced his wife and has a place for us in Thailand. He’ll take us in there. And listen to this – he has promised to buy you both tickets to Thailand, because he knows how much you mean to me.”
I opened my mouth to say, No, don’t go back to him! Don’t you see you’re jumping from the frying pan into the fire? He’s an abuser, just like Mark is an abuser. Please stop the cycle! Don’t run further into it! My Venusian idealism about love, however, gave the counter-argument. What if Daniel really is her soul mate? Now they will be able to be together at his place in Thailand, finally, after so many years!
Before I could say word one, Molly continued talking. “I promise: I will never, ever disappear again. I love you both. You’re my best friends, and I’ll stay in touch this time, I promise. But I have to go. I have to go!”
That’s how we lost Mysterious Molly the second time. When I contemplate our five months together on the Big Island of Hawai’i, it began at a public spectacle highlighting sexual abuse and ended with a personal crisis of sexual abuse.
Molly did keep her word this time, though. Not only did she stay in touch, she investigated printing companies for us, since we wanted to reprint the Pillow Decks outside American dollar prices and potential pornography laws. Before long we were making plane reservations to spend a month in Thailand. Dudaka would take care of Alex and our house. Maybe the trip would give James and me the fresh energy we needed.
Just days before our departure, however, our plans fell apart like a jigsaw puzzle hitting a hard floor. Our commission-based marketer of the Pillow Deck quit, our potential financiers for the reprint withdrew when their Florida home was hit with a hurricane, and Daniel, decrying a banking crunch, did not reimburse us for our tickets. We had been working so hard for our Tantric oracle deck’s success, and now what? Suddenly James and I faced each other to discuss if we were going to take our dwindling Hawaiian budget on a trip to Asia.
“I see that sparkle in your eye that says we’re going to jump off another cliff,” I said.
“Well you should recognize it,” he retorted. “It’s a reflection of yours.”
Kingdom of Freedom
Thai means free, and Thailand means “Land of the Free.” The Thai people are proud of the fact that they sailed through the Age of Empire never having been conquered by the big colonial powers. The fact that English is understood in the country is because of the Siamese kings’ ability to negotiate with the British and royal resolve to educate Thais to be part of the world economy; it is not the result of past colonial domination. Their Buddhist equanimity, ability to see both sides and compromise, and cool detachment from life’s dramas have not only helped the country steer a middle course through modern history but grace the culture with a friendly sense of peace. In addition, the Thai concept of sanuk places a high value on happiness and fun... life is to be enjoyed, after all. People we met seemed hospitable and very open. The typical greeting when meeting or parting was a bow with the hands in prayer position in front of the heart or face. I loved that. With the attendant eye contact, I felt as if I was making a personal connection with everyone I met.
James and I certainly felt welcome and safe there. Having lived and painted along the Mekong River in northern Thailand in the 1990’s, James was glad for a return visit. Molly and the kids had moved into a two-story stone house north of Chiang Mai. When we arrived, she was just settling them into an international school, and training the maid and gardener. I loved wandering in the gardens of banana plants, hibiscus flowers, and orchids, resting in the outdoor pavilion by the fountain, or visiting the spirit house by the road. Sitting on a cement pillar was a small wooden replica of the house, where the maid dutifully made offerings of food, flowers, and incense, entreating the spirits to protect the family.
Thailand is a Buddhist country, and when James and I had completed our mission of setting up printing companies for some future reprint of the Pillow Deck, we paid visits to the wats (temple compounds), which were in every neighborhood, it seemed. The wat was an oasis of tranquility in the bustling, trafficky cities, and a center of activity for every community. Temple interiors were clean and intricately carved or painted, with a gilded Buddha at the central altar. Sitting meditatively in a lotus posture, or sometimes standing or reclining, the Buddha statue, which was often several times larger than life, was the focus of my sitting. Breath in, breath out... gold Buddha, red carpet. As my eyelids would drop in imitation of the Buddha’s eyes, I found myself slipping into deep meditations, undoubtedly reinforced by all the past meditations there as well as by a courtyard fountain, temple bells ringing, or monks chanting. Social custom dictated that every Thai male serve part of his life as a monk – from a week to a year to his whole life – and this infused much of Thai life with a sense of reverence. The saffron-robed, shaved-head young men were a common sight.
Men... monks... it took short inquiry for me to discover that Theravada Buddhism was yet another bastion of male supremacy. Every mother wanted her son to spend time in the monkhood so he could gain merit... for her! Since a woman could not be ordained, she had to rely on male relatives to help her off the wheel of karma. “There ya go, Ma. Watch yer step!”
Hinayana Buddhism, of which Theravada is its last remaining tradition, was called “the Small Vehicle” because it focuses on personal liberation; a Volkswagen Buddhism, as it were – too small for many people to fit into it. It requires following the monastic life – studying, meditating, and serving the community, as well as renouncing desire, possessions, money, and creature comforts. That meant – of course – renouncing sex.
Mahayana Buddhism was more like an Astro Van that could fit everybody else: in other wor
ds, the householders who engaged in commerce, politics, personal pursuits – and sex – in their lives of making homes, raising families, and mingling in the world. Luckily for them, there are bodhisattvas, enlightened beings whose boundless compassion leads them into earthly incarnations, where they can help the rest of us poor slobs to get off the karmic wheel of suffering. Under Mahayana, sex is tolerated as one of the “skillful means” for practicing compassion and living peace.
My taste ran more to a third option: Vajrayana (Tibetan/Tantric) Buddhism, “the Diamond Vehicle,” which includes magical rituals using mantras, mandalas, and meditative as well as physical practice. Its texts are called the Tantras. More than being tolerated, making love is considered symbolic of the Great Bliss of Liberation; therefore, the main icon of Vajrayana is Buddha seated in a yab-yum position with his lover. This Vajrayana (Tantric/Tibetan) Buddhism concept was much more aligned with my Venusian values of sacred sexuality...
Here in Thailand, however, it was Theravada all the way. It frustrated James and me to sincerely appreciate its role in infusing Thai society with respect, kindness, gentleness, and a refined aesthetic sense, and then to encounter its male hierarchical view. We had a conversation with a genial middle-aged Thai man who admitted that yes, it was a shame that women could not attain enlightenment, but that’s just the way it was. Was he secretly glad that upon reaching nirvana, he would find no women there? “Is he in for a surprise!” James said to me in an aside.
Venus and Her Lover Page 5