Raging Hormones

 

Guess what, there's a lot to feel crazed by, let alone be angry about, during menopause, as wellas these particular times. So don’t just be a cranklepuss or a curmudgeon, notice what is really infuriating - it might be some old family dynamics or just what is going on in our government right now. Anger is truly a force to embrace, rather than just trying to be nice or deny it. It can explode and harm others, or implode and harm oneself. Anger serves a purpose - it lets us know that something is not right, something needs to change. 

Often, behind anger is hurt or fear. Take, for example, if someone is standing on my foot. It hurts. I express pain. They don't do anything about it. Now I express anger - I get louder, or maybe I even shove them off my foot. Then negotiations need to start - does the other person see the harm, take responsibility? Do I just act the victim and not say anything, or respond in a passive-aggressive way, i.e., make them feel guilty without letting them know what happened? Whether it is your spouse or your government who is stepping on your toes (or your rights), now is a good time to be fierce and passionate in expressing yourself and your needs. Channel that anger into something passionate, productive, and hopefully for social good.

It's okay to be crankypants. Just like puberty, just like being pregnant, the hormones they are-a-raging. Not that I was ever pregnant, boy oh boy, have I witnessed some emotional turbulence. In fact, if I ever start a Metallica band, it'd be called Hormonal Flux. I think my next bumper sticker will say, “Hormones: Gotta Love ‘Em.” Or maybe, “Have you done your Kegels today?” 

Something as stupid as a Band-Aid commercial puts me in tears. My mind obsesses on worst-case scenarios, and my dreams are plagued with apocalyptic scenes. My body is pumped with not just the mmmm whale noises endorphins but a bunch of testosterone, survivalist notions, my inner cranklepuss activated. Crank crank crank, churn, churn, churn. What has been helpful is to allow each catastrophe to unfold in my imagination, to be mindful to tap into my own inner resourcefulness by writing them out to completion in my journal.

Be Humble. You have never done this before. Puberty, pregnancy, perimenopause - you’ve been through some of these hormonal roller coasters, but nothing like this. Thank the goodness you are stronger than before. Rather than cursing, what follows in the next section is a blessing ritual to transform unhelpful people/situations into helpful ones.

This is a good time to review your past, make peace with it, and let it go. Whether you have prior conflicts or regrets or resentments, it could be as simple as writing a letter, going to therapy, or practicing forgiveness. One can define forgiveness as no longer being affected by a person or incident, not that what happened was okay or ever will be okay. But you can be okay. So forgive parents, siblings, ex-lovers. None of these people and none of the past define you now. If you can’t or don’t want to forgive, you can bless them and move on, using a Helpful Beings Box.

(Excerpt from Laphrodite's Guide to Mindful Menopause or the Adventures of a Baby Crone)

I - Magician - Hummingbird

 

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Transformation is a Way of Life, Not a Moment in Time

We see the magician, one arm raised to the heavens, one pointing at earth, all the four-element tools before her, hummingbirds a-hovering by her shoulders. Then we notice the locks of hair - bringing forth both Samson and the Gorgon.

The most radical thing I have ever done was cut my hair. When I was a kid, my hair was sparse, thin, and cut short like a boy's. People often mistook me for a boy because I wore jeans and T-shirts instead of dresses. 

I always wanted long hair. My mother had hers down to her waist, as did both of my babysitters. This was in the early days of Disney,  and all the princesses had long blonde hair. I remember crying at Woolworth's because the only princess mask was Cinderella, and she had blonde hair when mine was brown. 

My hair finally started to grow in elementary school. This started long fights with my mother. Our chant: “First the brush, then the comb, then the rubber band.” I would keep it contained in one or two braids. By the time I was in high school, I could sit on it. I never got it cut. Occasionally my mother would trim the split ends. It was only in my 20s that I finally got bangs. 

 

During my first marriage, things got a little bit rocky, and I remember thinking,  if we broke up, what would I do? I knew instantly I would cut my hair and do a ritual with it. I became the butch babe I was always attracted to.

In 1994, I went to my brother's hairdresser to chop off my hair. I made a thick braid which was deftly sliced off. That rope of hair lived above my altar for over a decade. One day I decided that as my hair contains my history, I should allow it to be free. I went down to Lighthouse Field and released the strands into the breeze so the birds could make their nests.

I walked into Herland and gave my wife a big hug from behind. She turned and put her hands on my head, stepped back, and said, "I thought you could never surprise me."

It served me well, this butch cut. A classic flat top, a touch of hair gel, I looked like a little spiky hedgehog. Being the queen Amazon at the lesbian bookstore, I needed to be tough, a warrior. Every day I was baited by random men who had nothing to do but try to argue politics.

After Herland closed in 2004, I grew out my hair. I wanted to be the Priestess rather than the Warrior. I exchanged my contact lenses for prescription glasses, bought a plethora of long, flowy skirts and tunic tops, covered my tattoos, and worked hard to embody the archetype of the healer.

Much to my surprise, my hair grew out thick and wavy, when it has always been flat and straight. I keep it about shoulder length, and my hairdresser, who really is my therapist.. She cuts layers upon layers to free me from the weight on my neck and still frame my face. She always cuts my bangs too long, but I love her anyway. 

I walked over to my local coffee shop and ran into an old friend, who said, "Oh, you look so different!"

And I thought, yes, because I am not the same.

"Herland" painted by Vivien Ebright Chung

Two female figures enjoy a sensual embrace amidst a euphoric landscape as their dogs look on and a hat blows away. "Herland" is a homage to the lesbian culture at the heart of the community in Santa Cruz, California, the artist's hometown. The vividness of the colorfield overlays the confident lines of the figures, creating a spacious explosion of energy and sublime expansiveness.

This painting is a pretty loving and restful work, despite its maximalist visual quality. The dog is showing the innocence and purity of love, sensuality, and the interaction between the two human figures.

Ebright Chung connects to and expresses her queer identity through artistic practice, something that struck us deeply at Dotted Line. The featured painting is informed by the artist’s roots in Santa Cruz. It is directly inspired by Herland, the feminist book store that once stood in the city. Herland, full name Herland: The WanderGround, was founded by Kayla Garnet Rose, who discovered feminist bookstores as a Wesleyan student. The name was a mashup of two feminist utopian novels: Charlotte Perkins Gilman's 1915 "Herland," about an all-female society discovered by three male explorers, and Sally Miller Gearhart's 1978 "The Wanderground," about a community bridging an all-female society and a patriarchal one. Their original motto was "A Feminist Utopia in Your Own Home Town."

New Review for Tarot and Reiki

 

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Everyday Mystic

 

Taking a hot shower, the miracle of modern-day plumbing,
Coming home, the porch light is already on,
The backyard is the temple, sacred space,
Priestess of pruning, invoking hummingbirds.

Bees and ravens, a choir of leaves whispering,
Dappled sunlight stains the grass,
The clerestory of an open cathedral,
Vision of heaven on earth is here.

Examine roots and bulbs, rose hips and passion vine,
Inviting teachers: cats, beetles, spiders and snakes,
To teach their ways of quiet contentment,
Kneel in the dirt, grit under praying hands.

Pulling out negative thoughts, planting seeds of change,
Finding wisdom in watering, irrigating the soul,
The deep peace of sweeping the deck yet again,
Paying attention to the dusky hues, rising moon.

Planting the future now by enjoying the present moment,
Breathing in the jasmine, both alone and all-one,
Here, grateful for being the creatrix,
Open to the mysteries as the night unfurls.

Moving back inside to simply make soup,
Supping on a blessed life, I break my own bread.

(Excerpt from Laphrodite's Guide to Mindful Menopause or the Adventures of a Baby Crone)

Eight of Pentacles - Owl Magic

Hard at work

In the predawn hours.

Owl keeps her company, 

Adds wisdom to power. 

Takes her time 

Honing her crafts and art. 

Always willing to learn more

Have more love in her heart. 

Pays attention to the details 

Committed to the process. 

Elbow grease and forehead sweat 

Sweet taste of success.

Learning the sacred trades,

The tools in their way 

No longer the apprentice, 

This artist has plenty to say

The rewards of patience, 

Enjoying health and wealth. 

Here is a woman 

Who truly loves herself.

Thoughts on Being Barren

  

When I got together with my loverloo, he was quite willing to discuss having kids, despite our advanced age (I was forty-three at the time, he was fifty-six). My logical mind said no, health risks, etc., my emotional side... Mixed whale noises. Happily, I have both step-children and grandkids, so certainly my world has expanded.

There is a difference between not being able to give birth anymore and choosing not to have children of one's own. I never wanted to have children. In fact, there are only two distinct times in my life when I wanted to get pregnant. Once, when I was in high school, I simply felt so happy in a random moment with my sweetheart. Then, in my late thirties, after getting divorced. I realized pretty quickly it was not that I wanted another child, but wanted a child that I would not have to share custody with. Get a cat, I told myself.

So it came as quite the surprise that when my eggs dried up, I grieved no longer having the option to conceive, even though I never felt the proverbial biological clock ticking, let alone the biological urge to procreate.

I found myself thinking about empty vessels. On my altar is an empty birch bark basket, made by my Nona Linda, my maternal grandmother. It sits on a piece of embroidery from Nona Theresa. Next to that is an empty bowl. Where is there sacredness in the absence of all? I find myself contemplating the black hole in the middle of my uterus, which is not just blank but somehow sucking in all of my life force within. When I succumb to the abyss, I allow myself to wallow in the nothingness. Sometimes this looks like staying in bed for hours on end. Maybe it is this hollow feeling that we try to feed with posting on social media, gloom scrolling (what I like to call doom scrolling), or endless NYT crossword puzzles. I take a moment to imagine being hollow like a drum, still resonant, still beating.

(Excerpt from Laphrodite's Guide to Mindful Menopause or the Adventures of a Baby Crone)