Between the ages of 19 and 21 I was in my first ever relationship, shortly after having sex for the first time ever (and kissing someone in that way for the first time ever — happened the same night I had sex for the first time, which I do not at all regret: go big or go home).
He was the same sort of guy that I have ended up dating for the past seven years since my dating life began: cis, heterosexual, geeky and/or nerdy. He was also my introduction to kink — you can read more about that aspect of my relationship with Victor in this post.
Something it took me a while to realize and express, after our relationship ended, was that I never asserted my boundaries firmly with him, and he took that as an invitation to run roughshod over my wishes. I wouldn’t classify him as an abuser as I would some of my other exes, but I would say the relationship was abusive and toxic — for both of us, probably, though I daresay the effects on me have lingered far longer.
One of the biggest things that happened during those two years was me giving up my bodily sovereignty for him. I’m not talking about just having sex; I’m talking about having sex when I didn’t really want to. Engaging in sex acts that I didn’t really enjoy. Engaging in kink practices that were contrary to my nature, to the point where I convinced myself for years that I was submissive. Convincing myself to do things that would please him, even they were things I really didn’t want to do — namely, two piercings. (If piercings squick you out, you may not want to read the rest of this post. I’m not terribly graphic, but I do mention them.)
After my last post about Savita, I emailed T. Thorn Coyle to ask for her help in finding ways to respond to this tragedy. I felt that something needed to be done, besides writing and prayer, but I didn’t know what.
She had some really good suggestions for organizing a response.
One was to lobby at the local Irish Consulate for changes in Ireland’s legislation regarding abortion. (You can find a list of Irish embassies and consulates abroad here.) There is an Honourary Consul in my town, so I’m going to see if I can make an appointment to speak directly to him. I will also be sending the letter below,which you may take, tweak, and send to your own Irish Consul. (You may want to do a lot of tweaking, as my letter is specific to Canada and me — there is a fact sheet about U.S. relations with Ireland here. But the letter below should give you some inspiration at least.)
Dear Mr. Cheevers:
Canada and Ireland have had friendly relations for years, and many Canadians think kindly of Ireland. However, with the news of Savita Halappanavar’s death, a wake up call has sounded across the nation.
I, like many Canadians, had no idea that abortion was illegal in Ireland. I suppose for me it was a personal oversight — I’m of Irish descent and I worship Irish gods, and had planned for a long time to make both a personal and a religious pilgrimage to Éire. I never imagined that the place I’d been fantasizing about visiting for so long, the place that looked so heavenly to me, would have such disregard for the lives of women, trans men, and genderqueer assigned-female-at-birth folk.
I will not be visiting Ireland until the law is changed. Not only can I not do so in good conscience, but I must think about my own physical safety — and visiting a country that does not believe in my right to my own body is putting myself in danger of serious illness or, worse, death.
I urge you to speak with the Taoiseach and the members of Oireachtas and tell them — this needs to change. Abortion must be made legal in Ireland. Don’t let Savita Halappanavar’s death become a senseless tragedy. Ireland looks very bad on the world stage right now because of this. That can change, but it starts with you.
Justice for Savita — change the abortion laws.
Sincerely,
Morag Spinner
The other idea Thorn gave me was to let Irish tourism boardsknow that I wouldn’t be visiting Ireland until a change was made, and that I’d be organizing my friends around that.
Here is the letter I’ve drafted to the Irish tourism boards. Feel free to take it, tweak it, and send it off yourself. (Make sure to choose one of the boards to address it to; don’t sent it off with the slash. That’s only there to indicate whom you should address each letter to.)
Dear Tourism Ireland/Fáilte Ireland:
I find myself quite distressed writing this. Recently I heard the story of Savita Halappanavar dying in Ireland because she was refused medical care. This led me to research Ireland’s laws regarding abortion, and I found that it is illegal — but that five referendums on it have been held in the past 30 years.
It is time for a change. It is time to make abortion legal. I have had plans to visit Ireland since I was an adolescent, but those plans have changed. I cannot in good conscience support the tourism of a country that condemns women to die, nor can I risk my own health travelling to a country where the law does not regard me as more of a person than a zygote, or blastocyst, or embryo, or fetus.
I will not be visiting Ireland until the law is changed, and I will be organizing the people I know around this. Let your lawmakers know — their abortion legislation is hurting tourism.
Sincerely,
Morag Spinner
Tourism Ireland is the main corporation behind marketing Ireland overseas. Their contact information is here. I suggest not only sending the letter to their corporate offices in Ireland, but also to overseas offices that are local to you. You can add a bit to the letter about how the legislation in Ireland is hurting tourism from your country specifically, if you wish.
Fáilte Ireland is the National Tourism Development Authority, and it would be good to get in touch with them as well. Their contact information is here; I think Complaints may be the best department, but one might also wish to try Reception. (Edit, as of Nov. 26th: they only have contact forms, which require you to select a region that’s within Ireland. I just selected Dublin, and then added a bit within my letter saying I was in Canada, but their regional menu didn’t give me that option. Hopefully the letter will still get through to the appropriate channels.)
I urge you to not only send your letter via email, but also via regular post if you have the capability to do so (I know money is tight these days). Let’s flood their offices with responses — let them know Ireland has lost a substantial part of its tourism business because of this legislation.
Those are things that we can do to support the pro-choice movement Ireland. Pressure from overseas as well as pressure within their own country may effect some positive change — one can only hope. (Please note, my heart and my sympathies are with the Irish people during this time, and I lend my spirit to the Irish pro-choice movement. I do not blame the Irish people for what happened. I do, specifically, blame the medical staff who refused Savita life-saving treatment, and the politicians who have not changed the law despite having five referendums in 30 years, and the Catholic anti-choice ethos. It’s obvious that many Irish folk are ready for a change, and it’s a shame the government isn’t listening. I hope that by writing to them, we can let them know the world is watching, and supporting the pro-choice movement in Ireland.)
You can also look at Choice Ireland, the online hub for the pro-choice movement in Ireland. Ask them specifically what you can do to get involved. Don’t let this blog be your last stop for reading about this — I’m not in Ireland. I’m of Irish descent, but that doesn’t give me licence to speak to the Irish people’s experience. I only speak to my own experience, my own reaction to Savita’s death, and my own deep need to take action of some sort.
My fellow activists, during this I also ask: remember self-care. It’s just as important as fighting the good fight. Don’t let yourself burn out on this; breaks are necessary. Thorn reminded me of this too, and I’m glad she did. I have a tendency to fling myself into the fight until I’m so battered I’m no good to anyone, least of all myself. We must do what we can. No one has any right to ask any more of us.
I’ll be splitting my energies between fighting for Ireland and fighting for my own home country. Conservative MPs in Canada’s parliament have brought forth a new anti-choice motion — M408. You can read more about it here.
If you want to help fight for pro-choice activists in Canada as well as Ireland, the same tactics outlined above are a good start. Write to Canadian tourism boards and let them know that if M408 passes, Canada will lose your business. This will have a large impact coming from U.S. residents — we rely on a lot of tourism from our southern neighbours. You can also write to Canadian MPs and urge them to vote NO on M408 — especially the MPs who voted in favor of our last anti-choice motion, M312 (possibly easier to read list here).
But zie loves the snow and despite the pain welcomes the cold
Zie buries zir face in it and lies on the ground
The stars above zir wondering eyes work as mirrors zie sees zirself in the skies.
I withdraw in winter, and write bad poetry. It’s the time of the year I grow quiet, cold, passive. I look within myself, and find things I didn’t know. Sometimes I find nothing.
Winters are not always spiritually productive for me. Sometimes they’re the time for me to regroup before summer, when the Work makes me busier than Brighid’s bees.
As soon as Samhain passes, I find myself becoming more withdrawn. Not just spiritually, but socially as well. I become even more of a shut-in, which is quite a feat.
Until Beltaine, I’m the Winter Witch. I’ve an ice heart; my hair is the leaves of conifers; my face is gnarled bark; my shawl is moss and snow; I am hunched, waiting, watchful. I see myself in the skies, in the trees, in the cold. I do not easily share my secrets, for they are hard-won.
Within my bones is the darkness of the earth herself; my blood contains the stars from the soil, and they sing to me in my sleep.
None of the earth is truly separate from me; none of my Work is something I don’t already know, to the very depth of my being. I needs must only remember; I needs must only gain the knowledge back from myself, and that is the hardest battle ever won.
The Winter Witch bides zir time; zie watches for the right moment. Then, quick as a snake, zie strikes, and carries off zir trophy proudly: the memory of Work done in another life.
I’ve used the Witches’ Ointment and the Mandrake Ointment with no ill-effects. Last night I decided to try Porta’s Ointment, which contains belladonna, datura, and henbane (as well as mandrake).
I put on a vinyl glove before using my finger to apply a very small amount to the inside of my left arm. The only medication I’m on right now is Zoloft, and so far as my research tells me there are no adverse interactions between Zoloft and the active chemicals in belladonna, datura, henbane, or mandrake.
I sat on my bed and got out my journal and started recording my experiences as they happened. I’ll relate the ones that are legible for you below (verbatim).
instant sort of dry, desert lime/eucalyptus/mentol feel in back of throat
warm at application spot
taste chocolate on tongue tip
tingling in feet
tasted mint?
PARANOIA
i can hear all my body’s processes; or see them; or just — know
hearbeat slowed? or more paranoia?
Sometime soon after that I fell asleep. Possibly not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but I was exhausted and I’d fallen asleep before while under the effects of the Mandrake Ointment, with no problems. What, as they say, was the worst that could happen?
Morrigan and Brighid want me to do Their work, and They want it done everyday. They want me to be a witch, and They have been very clear that to be a witch — to do Their work — I must also be involved in social justice work.
Witchcraft is not just lighting candles and waving wands; witchcraft is blogging and writing and picking up litter; it’s remembering what’s in my bones; it’s helping others. There’s no such thing as being solitary because my every move should be about making the world a better place for people of all species.
Witchcraft is activism. And I’m a witch. I need to be a witch all the time.
It’s not all woo. It’s practical and real and earthy and it’s changing the world. Witchcraft is the act of crafting a new world. Of crafting reality.
That is not limited to magic, to woo, to crystals and fucking glitter. And there is nothing mundane about what I do with my own two corporeal hands; there is nothing mundane about getting dirty in the pursuit of justice.
Somedays I lose hope. Somedays I want to watch the whole world burn, because I come to believe that the only way we’re going to make any fucking progress is to destroy everything and start from scratch.
Today’s one of those days.
But I’m being told to shelve those feelings. I’m being told to grow some ovaries, genderqueer up, and keep fighting.
When the really ironic thing is, in regard to this particular story, this death that has me feeling so upset, I feel there is not much I can do, concretely. I feel rather helpless to do something in Savita’s memory, to do something to help Ireland’s pro-choice movement, and yet that is exactly what Brighid and Morrigan are calling me to do.
Do the work, They say. That is all They say, today. Do the work.
Savita deserves justice. My love urges me to take action.
I will start with prayer. I will start by writing about this. I will start by refusing to shut up. I will start by reaching out to other activists, asking for their help.
Tonight, I will keep the flame in Brighid’s name, for Savita and for Ireland. I will lend the pro-choice movement there my spiritual strength.
Today, and tomorrow, and for as long as it takes, I will work towards justice for Savita. For all cis women, trans men, and genderqueer afab people in Ireland.
He’s been very clear, the past month, what He wants from me this Samhain. He wants me to to do a ritual in which I accept His foster-fatherhood over me, and renounce my biological sire for good.
Mind, I did do a ritual to renounce my biological sire (and I told him to get the frack out of my life). But it’s not that simple. Twenty-six years with an abuser means that a few months later and I’m still having thoughts of “Maybe I hurt him. Maybe I should apologize. Maybe I should allow him to be my father again; he doesn’t have much time on this earth left. He’s my father; he’s the only one I have. We do get along…sometimes….”
He was very good at getting me to forgive him for everything he did to me. That sort of emotional manipulation doesn’t go away just like that.
Shouldn’t I do more severance rituals first, to cut away his cords from me, before I formally ‘adopt’ You? I asked Manannan today, after doing my first severance ritual.
You cleared away three years of good relationship and a few months of heartache with this one ritual today, He replied. Clearing away your father’s crap will take much longer. I will help you, but first you must do this ritual. For me.
I don’t understand, sometimes, why He cares so much for me. Why I am loved so much by Him. I don’t know why He wants to adopt me.
For now, the why doesn’t matter. I’m loved by the rain and that’s what matters.
It actually turned out better that way. I was in no state earlier today to write anything coherent or useful — I’d been up all night. I finally crashed at 5:30pm and woke up at midnight so I could do the ritual.
Two candles, one for Persephone and one for Morrigan. Two cups of tea as offering — pomegranate rooibos and yerba mate. Tools for severing connections. The spider-web is to hide the identity of the person in the photograph.
This ritual was to sever astral connections between me and my ex. I’ve had a really shitty month, healthwise, and I’m sure it’s related to my dogged avoidance of any sort of spiritual work. October is my favourite month, but it hasn’t been this year.
The cutting of astral cords was the lightbulb that got flung my way yesterday. In a thread on TC, SkySamuelle mentioned the Morrigan and cutting away lingering energetic cords. This was sort of a duh moment for me — I’ve long known that one of Her mysteries is that of cutting away what doesn’t belong – the attitude of the knife. I just never put two and two together and realized that I’d need Her as well as Persephone for this ritual.
I brewed the tea and lit the candles, and tried to get the charcoal to light so I could burn some of Persephone’s incense. I couldn’t get the damn thing to work so eventually I just gave up and lit the incense itself on fire. I will tackle the Mystery of the Charcoal Brick at some point, I swear.
I asked for Persephone’s and Morrigan’s presence, help, and protection for the ritual and got into a still state of mind.
There were a few steps to the severance. First I took a black sharpie and blacked out my ex’s face on the photo, saying her full name and that I remove her presence from my mind’s eye. While I did this, I could feel Morrigan removing the cords that connected my ex to my third eye chakra.
Then I cut the picture up into little pieces, chanting that I cut any cords between us. I felt Morrigan remove the cords from both my heart and stomach chakras. After, I sat down and meditated a bit, searching for more lingering cords. There was astral gunk all over me, but especially over my throat chakra. With Morrigan’s assistance those cords got cut away, too.
I used duct tape to bind up all the small pieces of the photograph. I did this as a symbol of binding up all the energetic cords from my ex to me. I used extra tape like a magnet to suck away the remaining bits of astral gunk from our relationship, and added it to the bundle of tape. I wrapped it up with black electrical tape, saying that I bound away her poison.
Morrigan made one last sweep of my astral body and I fell back, lying down on the floor of my living room and feeling a little dizzy. I also felt cleaner than I have in months, and freer.
When I sat up again, I regarded the bundle of tape on the altar. It pulsed with poison. I asked Persephone if She would take it away, back into the earth, where it could be neutralized. She agreed. I thanked both Ladies for Their presence and help, and then I went to go shower.
The emotional pain is gone, and I imagine the poison in my skin is gone too. I no longer feel anything if I think of my ex.
I have done nothing this month. Somehow the entire month is gone already, and I have done nothing. (Spiritually. I’ve been busy in other areas. Very busy.)
The severance ritual has been postponed to…tonight? Is the current plan. Probably a good thing, as I had a lightbulb moment about it that happened today. But on the other hand, I’m now planning on asking both Persephone and the Morrigan for help during this ritual.
And I’ve gone all month without doing anything spiritual. I feel like I need to write some really amazing fantastic ritual that will make up for that.
But my brain is dead and my recovery from con crud and lycanthropy* is slow. I try to think about how to do the ritual and come up with…nothing.
And this is now going to be part one of a two-day ritual process. Tomorrow’s ritual is supposed to be for Manannan. But I haven’t interacted with Him very much…at all recently.
So the guilt cycle begins. I haven’t done much for the gods, so before I can do something really big where I ask for Their help, I need to do stuff for Them. But I need to do this ritual now; it’s sort of crunch time. I can feel myself weakening even more.
In large part I just feel like a huge failure, and that can be really hard to cope with.
So I’m going to go pound out a really crappy ritual and hope the whiskey and pomegranate tea will make up for it.
Apologies for this rambly post. I realize it’s really bad and no where near my usual standards, but if I didn’t post something after neglecting this blog all month I never would have posted anything again, because the guilt would have drowned me.
*Lycanthropy is my new word for menstruation, which is now giving me even more dysphoria and general feeling-like-crapness than usual because my IUD was removed in late September. I’ve had two periods since then, which is weird because usually they’re not so frequent (yay 45-day cycles), and it’s very apparent my memory is incredibly short as I forgot how horrendous they really are/were. Lycanthropy is a nice, non-gendered way to refer to the spontaneous horror film that happens from my nethers once a month or whenever, because fuck you, Morag, regular menstrual cycles are for other people.
This post is more rambling and looking for answers than a solid, coherent piece of writing. Also I talk about maggots and worms and crap (not actual crap; crap used as a substitute for stuff) and it’s pretty gross, so if it creeps you out the way it creeps me out you may not want to read.
Just…be forewarned.
So, I’m sick right now. And it’s weird, because I haven’t really be interacting with people that much in meatspace recently. Basically I’ve been a shut-in.
Also there’s a strange culmination of it and other stuff. Last night I reorganized my yarn boxes and put them all back on the shelf they were on, which was above part of my closet. And then that entire portion of the closet fell down and went boom a little while later, while I was sitting on the couch watching Torchwood.
Over the past two days there have been two spiders in my house — one on the wall, and one in the bathtub — which normally I’d see as normal because normally I live in basement suites. I don’t now, however; I live in an apartment which used to belong to my grandma, and in all the time this place has been in our family (twenty years) I’ve never seen one single spider until this week.
I’ve been having nightmares, which is strange in itself because they’ve been really vivid, and really fucked up, and I’m back on my Zoloft — when I was on the first month of Zoloft I didn’t have any vivid, fucked up nightmares. I had a few mild ones, but nothing like normal. I went off it for a week because I ran out of pills, and now I’m on my new prescription and…the nightmares have intensified. (I realize this could just be delayed withdrawal, and I’m hoping that’s it. But it could also mean something, and I’m not eliminating that as a possibility.)
And then there are the maggots. I’ve kept this place super clean. I’ve been religious about it. And yet, twice in the past week I’ve found a maggot. Once in the bathroom, on the wall, and now in the kitchen, on the wall by the door.
I have to say, the maggots bug me. A lot. I can deal with spiders — sure, I’m terrified of them, but I can still put them in a cup and put ’em outside, which is what I’ve done with the last two I’ve found. But the last time I found a maggot? It was on the weekend, and the Ogre was visiting. He had to deal with it. I just found this other one about ten minutes ago, and I sent him a text saying THERE IS ANOTHER MAGGOT ON THE WALL AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO (verbatim; caps intact).
I…cannot stand maggots. Or worms, really. They just gross me out because I start to think about them burrowing into my skin, and then I want to vomit. Also I’ve read “blowfly girl” like ten times because it’s just like a trainwreck I can’t look away from.
And now my muscles are really aching in that flu-y sort of way, and I can’t help but think this is all connected. Maybe connected to the work I’m supposed to be doing spiritually but have put off, and don’t really feel like doing at this moment because, well, I’m sick. (Brilliant move, Universe, or Gods, or Whoever the fuck sent me illness. Illness demons! That’s it. Gotta work up a great big funky stench to keep them away.)
The things I’ve been planning on doing are…ok, one thing right now (and one related thing later), which is my much-belated Autumn Equinox ritual that I was sort of planning on doing tonight but I feel like such crap I don’t even have the energy to set up my altar, let alone write a ritual. But maybe I should. Maybe the spiders are telling me it’s time to expel the venom, and the maggots are here to…eat my decaying astral flesh.
Ugh that’s so gross I just grossed myself out ugh ugh ugh ugh
And that’s what this ritual is going to be about; about cutting the ties formally. Getting rid of toxic peoples’ energy in my life. One in particular, because I’ve never done a formal ritual to get rid of her. She’s just stuck around, like a boil on my heart.
So much so that I was momentarily freaking out on Friday because I worried I might run into her — I went to a burlesque show and nevermind she still lives on the Island and I’m on the mainland now — sometimes the troupes work together and who’s to say she wouldn’t be there? And there were people from her town, but it wasn’t her troupe, it was some boylesquers. It was enough to quicken my breathing and make my heart race.
Exes are no fun and despite all the growth I’ve gone through because of my past relationships, I find myself wishing more often than not that I’d met the Ogre seven years ago and had just stayed steady with him all this time. Because he’s my penguin-lobster-madman with a box, and I sort of regret not having that extra time with him before my biological clock goes crazy and holds us hostage in a Macy’s or something.
(I’m on a timeline to have kids, by the way, and I won’t be dissuaded from it, not even for True LoveTM because it’s vitally important to me that I spawn my first hellbeast before I turn thirty. Anyway, this is a tangent.)
But you know, if it were a physical wound on my body instead of an astral one and I was in the desert or the jungle or somewhere away from medical supplies and clean water and shite and my only chance to survive and not have any infection or whatever was to cram it full of maggots or some other sort of disgusting creature that would eat away the necrotic flesh and leave me healthier, I’d fucking do it. Because I’m hardcore into surviving the fuck out of this life. I’ve been through way too fucking much to throw in the towel because worms gross me out.
I’d just, you know, need therapy. Extra therapy on top of the stuff I already desperately need. Whatever. I can live with that.
So what is the hang-up here? I can easily imagine doing what’s necessary to survive physical wounds but the second the astral ones crop up I chicken out and run away? Godsdammit, where did my ovaries go? (I use ovaries here instead of balls as a measure of strength and courage not because I have ovaries but because godsdammit, ovaries are way stronger than balls, sorry, it’s true, they can survive multiple cysts and still be ready to produce fetus-making eggs. Punch someone with ovaries in the abdomen and zie’ll be much better off than someone you kick in the balls. Or punch. Vaginae are also stronger than balls, generally speaking, though it hurts much more to be punched or kicked there than the ovaries. I know. So, again, balls are not an indicator of courage or strength. Seriously. Stop using the word that way.)
Augh, this is driving me nuts and I’m getting nothing accomplished by whining about it online. I’m off to craft a ritual. A very poorly-thought out, haphazard, held-together-by-duct-tape ritual.
Trigger warning:fatphobia, ableism, mention of disordered eating, suicide
So recently there was a question on TC regarding whether or not we have a religious duty to take care of our bodies.
I refrained answering, and for a while even refrained reading the thread. Threads like that have a tendency to fall into fatphobia, fat-shaming, ableism…it’s pretty gross. And very common, and I wanted nothing to do with it.
But then I got bored, I guess, and I read it, and then I had to respond to someone, because again, the belief that if one is to follow a war goddess one must be ‘fit’ had reared its ugly head. The poster did apologize, for what it’s worth, but I still want to tackle this idea, because I’ve seen it before, and I’m sure I’ll see it again.
The belief that one must be physically fit, whatever that means, to worship or follow or venerate or work with a deity usually associated with war is…lazy thinking, at best. And it comes out of a larger idea in paganism — the idea that as pagans, we should take care of our bodies, because we’re all about immanence instead of transcendence (apparently), and ‘most’ pagan faiths do not concentrate on the afterlife so we’re beholden to treating our bodies well in this life.
I’m all for treating bodies well. It’s one of the ways Morrigan has me work on my sovereignty.
Wait. You mean…I’m FAT? NO WAY. I HAD NO IDEA.
The problem is, what ‘treating my body well’ means to me is apparently different from what it means to fat-shaming, ableist pagans. They only see what they want to see, and what they want to see is a fat, lazy bitch who sits around eating Cheetos all day and therefore chooses to be obese (yes, because there are so many benefits to being fat, let me tell you, it’s just lovely spending every day fighting against a world that wants me to kill myself because of my size, this is obviously why I chose to be obese). They state this opinion, loudly, because part of thin privilege is believing you must be heard on the issue of obesity — those fatsos obviously don’t realize what bad choices they’re making! You must help them!
This then backs fat bitches like myself into a corner: we feel the need to explain what our lifestyle is really like so that people will stop judging us so much, when really — it’s none of their fucking business.
And then you get people saying “Well if you really worshipped this god or that god, then you wouldn’t be fat,” or “You should be in shape if you want to follow this deity,” or “If you truly believe that your body is a temple, why are you so fat?”
This is even harder to ignore than the general “EWWW OMG FAT PAGANS” bullshit that gets spouted, because now they’re pulling into question our faith, or practice. As if being fat changed how we feel about the gods. As if it changed the work we do for Them. As if it changes anything about our religions.
There is nothing in my religion that states I must be skinny. There is nothing in my faith that says I am unfit to worship the gods so long as I am fat and crippled.
Here’s the thing:the gods will tell me if I am unfit to follow Them. They will let me know. And so far, it’s been a lot of “Hey, can you do this thing for me? Because I said so, that’s why. Hop to it,” from m’Lady the Morrigan. A lot of “BURNING MISSIVE: WRITE NOW” from Brighid (in the form of fiery headaches that become migraines if I don’t write). A lot of “It’s okay, sweetie. Come on, give me a hug” from Manannan.
If I wasn’t worthy, They wouldn’t have come to me. If I was slim, and They left me because I got fat, then They wouldn’t be gods worth worshipping.
The gods do not give a shit what I look like. They do not care that I have a broken back. So long as I can do Their work, They will direct me. So long as I am ready and willing to accept the challenges They give, They will stay. So long as I am faithful to Their causes, They will give me the strength necessary to fight Their battles.
And no, those battles are not all physical. Following a ‘war goddess’ does not mean I actually need to be a martial arts master who can bench press an elephant. (Also, yay, let’s continue to reduce deities down to one characteristic, because obviously They’re one-dimensional. That’s so awesome. We should do it all the time.)
So let’s get back to the original question, shall we? Do I have a religious duty to take care of my body?
Yes. It’s the only body I have this life, and I need it to do the gods’ work. Therefore, I need to take care of it.
It’s my body. Taking care of it reclaims my sovereignty.
My body is how I commune with divinity. My body is an expression of divinity. Therefore, I must take care of it.
What does taking care of my body look like?
Eating enough so I’m not hungry. Avoiding eating behaviors that will make me relapse into my eating disorders. Eating good, healthy food as often as I can. Not punishing myself if I eat Nutella for dinner. Allowing myself to make my own food choices, and not letting other peoples’ behavior, words, or looks of disdain govern what I put into my body.
Finding ways of exercising that don’t hurt my back. Not overdoing it. Working up gradually, instead of letting guilt berate me into killing myself at the gym so I’m unable to do anything else for a week. Going to physio to fix my back. Admitting when I need help, and asking for it. Knowing my limitations.
Taking my Zoloft every day. Keeping my house clean. Showering and bathing. Brushing my hair. Having good sex. Using birth control, because pregnancy would be a really bad idea with my back so bad. Sleeping enough. Concentrating on my breathing. Singing. Swimming. Finding ways to ease my pain. Drinking alcohol in moderation. Not relapsing into smoking again.
Being out in nature. Wearing the right shoes. Wearing clothes that are comfortable, and fit, and that I feel good in, and no I don’t give a fuck if you think fat people shouldn’t wear sweatpants, or leggings under sweaters — I’m going to if I want to.
None of this stuff has anything to do with being slim, or losing weight. Because striving to lose weight does not take care of my body, or my mind. And it’s not necessary to honor my gods.
Fitness is a process, and it’s more than just physical. So long as I am willing to do The Work, then I am fit to worship.
Side note: I’ve been AWOL for a little while because I’m working on moving a bunch of my sites to WordPress.org instead of WordPress.com…and there is one hel of a learning curve. For the time being Innocence and Immanence will continue to be on WordPress.com, but you can see the new Maenads of the (R)Evolution site here. Please update your bookmarks accordingly.
