Three of Swords - Soggy Cat

Oh, my heart 

pierced again and again

mental anguish. 

What could I have done 

differently 

will I

next time

miserable cat 

walking in the rain 

misery, you are 

my companion again.

Appliance Love

 

Lobster Phone by Salvador Dali

After the Ecstasy, the Laundry

"Hi Chela-Bella, how are you?" My Mom's Swedish accent sounded in my ear as I cradled the phone to my cheek. 

"Well, Mom, the good news is, I've fallen in love. The bad news is..." I love my Mom. Both her and my Dad have been the epitome of tolerance and acceptance throughout my eclectic love life, which has ranged from my boyfriend living with us when I was a teenager to my fierce lesbian separatist days in my twenties to being with a transgender partner in my thirties.

"Mom, I've fallen in love with the Miele."

Yes, it was true. My Mom had left her Miele vacuum cleaner at my house for six months. It was worth more than my current car. Candy red, hummed like a well tuned Lamborghini, and boy, could that machine clean.

I think I'm going to start a new movement: Appliance Love. We all know how attached some folks are to their cell phones and laptops, let alone the Hitachi, but it is time to start coming out from the utility closet. Some of us have longer, more meaningful relationships with our household friends than with humans.

I see parades going down Pacific Avenue, led by the Precision-Drill Dust-Buster Squad, followed by the Microwave Marching Band, and of course, the Automatic Coffee Pot float will be one of the main attractions. I'll be the Grand Marshall, my Miele beside me as we cruise in a well decorated convertible, throwing replacement filters into the cheering crowd. Everyone will chant, "2, 4, 6, 8... Take your fax machine on a date!"

Next, we'll petition governments for the right to marry. I mean, there's domestic partners and then there are DOMESTIC partners, right? "To have and to hold, from this day forward, until death or the end of the warranty do us part..."

I made the gross mistake of attempting non-monogamy with my Miele. Yes, I admit it - I let my housemate touch her hose, fondle her attachments, and (gasp) change her bag. Now, I love and trust my housemate to the core, but my whole world shifted when I heard those words, "It just doesn't seem to be picking up like it used to..."

Yesterday I sat out on the back deck and took the Miele apart. Five years of accumulated cat fur, dust, threads, and hair had worked its way in every conceivable crack, corner, and crevice. I used screwdrivers, scissors, exacto knives, and two different kinds of tweezers to lure its secrets out. 

At a certain point, my daughter came out onto the deck. She surveyed the vacuum cleaner parts spread methodically over the deck, my deep plum velvet skirt covered in grey lint, the look of glee in my eyes as I snapped open this and screwed shut that. She listened to me prattle on about how much money I had just saved by spending hours of my time doing this.

"Mom," she said in her funny drawl, "You are all the husband you will ever need." 

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

Five of Swords - Shark

Don't mess with her. 

She's close to the tides.

Swords and sharks 

close to her side. 

Are you a predator? 

She'll make you prey 

You've messed with

The wrong woman today. 

Lightning strikes, gray clouds gather

Fight now, or would you rather 

Change yourself, change your mind. 

Don't be mean, Learn to be kind.

Eight of Swords - Albatross

We see our heroine bound and blindfolded, surrounded by eight swords plunged downwards into the earth. It is bleak and gloomy, just like her thoughts. One definition of stress is the need to make a decision; another definition could be indecision. So many thoughts, so many feelings, so much and so many people to consider; how can she remain true to herself and not waver? But it's all in her mind; she could cut the ropes easily. 

Albatrosses fly in the sky, symbols of shame, embarrassment, and punishment. Ancient sailors would hang a dead albatross around an offender's neck, symbolic of public humiliation, dirty laundry revealed, secrets betrayed. A rotten time indeed.

Bird cages are embroidered on her robe. Feeling caged by her thoughts, obsessive thinking, plagued by doubts, old insecurities arise. Overthinking, overanalyzing the situation, at times feeling cold and calculating, others at a complete loss of how to participate cohesively in the universal algorithm.

A gray castle is in the background - dreams, goals, or pointless fantasizing as an escape mechanism. A time to crunch the numbers, get down to the nitty-gritty, file those taxes, and pay the dues. 

Puddles of grief stretch out to the low tides of despair and doubt. Enough wallowing in self-pity; there's nothing attractive about it. Pick yourself up by the bootstraps and know the only bad decision is no decision.

 

"Free your mind and the rest will follow." - En Vogue

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)

Embracing Chiron, The Wounded Healer

 

No coincidence, I am also experiencing my Chiron return, astrologically speaking. Once a year, the Earth goes around the Sun, our solar return, happy birthday. Every 28-33 years, we experience our Saturn Return, a time to review our feelings of family and being in authority. Chiron has an eclectic orbit; most people experience a Chiron return in their late forties and early fifties. Chiron’s message in our natal charts is, “Change your greatest wounds into your greatest gifts.” 

According to Greek mythology, Chiron is the Wounded Healer. He was an immortal, but as luck would have it, he got stabbed by one of Hercules' poison arrows. He was condemned to being in agony for eternity. He scoured the earth looking for a cure, trying each and every one of the herbs for medicinal properties, but to no avail. So he decided to turn over his knowledge of the healing properties of plants to humanity, even though he still suffered. The gods and goddesses were so moved by this gesture that they decided to let Chiron become mortal, and thus die from Hercules' arrow. 

Now he is an asteroid in the sky, known as the rainbow bridge linking Mars and Jupiter, our deepest desires, and our willingness to be in the social world. The message here is how to change one's deepest wound into one's greatest gift, to bridge our selfish desires with our desire to improve the world, not just enjoy it. 

People tend to experience a Chiron return around the time of menopause. We are looking at our past and recognizing the need to stop being a victim of conditioning; it is not our wounds that define us. How to walk as the hero, but also the healer, the teacher, the mentor, and in whatever way, encourage future generations despite our own frustrations. Check with your local astrologer or an ephemeris to see where Chiron is in your chart. 

 

When you are honest with yourself and are willing to stop picking at the past, to let those wounds heal, maybe you’ll have some scars, but you’ll feel integrated and whole again. Embracing Chiron means moving out of being a Victim, Martyr, or Bully and walking the path of the Peaceful Hero. Stands up for yourself and knows how to sparkle.

 

Chiron's message in the chart is the same for everyone - that no matter what happens in life, it is nothing but a learning experience that should not be seen as a failure or drawback. Everything that happens has purpose, and the more that you can acknowledge this, the more attuned to the Universe and the people around you, you will be, and the more you will heal - physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.

 

What will bring you out of your grief, woundedness, and shame? Laughter is the best medicine, but there are other modalities to support you - storytelling, acupuncture, massage, aromatherapy. Learn how to use your personal birth chart as a map to navigate your own healing journey.

Laughing Meditation - Start by saying out loud, "Ha, ha, ha. Hee, hee, hee. Ho, ho, ho." Do it faster and faster until you actually do start laughing. In particular, try when driving. Other drivers might notice that you are laughing, which can make you laugh harder. Laugh when you need to visit the ATM, then you can say you were laughing all the way to the bank!

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

Feeling like a Queen

 

Speak to the Queen, and the Queen will Answer
- Finnish Proverb

Being a triple Libra, I have always associated myself with the Queen of Swords. She is somewhat known to be cold-hearted and a little bit of a bitch,  but I always have taken that in stride, that being an acronym for Being In Total Control of Herself.

We see her here with a crown of butterflies, which usually I associate with her sister air sign Gemini, but it does show to me that she has flitting thoughts and can sample the nectar from every flower. She is also graced with a snowy owl, symbol of wintry wisdom, long-term survival, and the ability to see in the darkest of times.

The Queen of Wands purrs like a cougar. She knows she is a woman well loved, and she enjoys flirting across the spectrums. Yellow sunflowers burst around her; orange California poppies grace her arm tattoos. Sensuous and serene, her warm hold robes exude her being centered in her third chakra of will power. She is Will. She is Power.

Orcas accompany the Queen of Cups, matriarchs of the sea. Killer whales are one of the few animals that experience menopause, the sense that the grandmothers are here to tend to the generations. She knows storms and calm waters, typhoons and the slow growth of the clams, who witness the eon-long changes much like the rings on redwood trees. Her blue and purple robes evoke both the crown chakra and the third eye - The Queen of cups is deeply intuitive, pays attention to her dreams, and is in love with the Moon.

The Queen of Pentacles is enjoying the garden harvest, which is ripe with apples, grapes, roses, and pomegranates. The Tree of Life is carved on her throne. 

The king counted his money, she counted her honey, and now she is ready to both reap the abundance and save the seeds for future endeavors. She is seen with a hare, ears a-twitching, nibbling at the grasses, eyes darting everywhere. While calm, the hare is alert, ready to respond at any moment- that is her responsibility, her ability to respond.

The Tarot of a Rambling Rose soon available on Amazon!

Reclaiming Hypatia

 

During this time of menopause, I've been doing art projects that have been on my mind for years, a feeling of tying up loose ends, taking things off the back burner, a need for completion and closure. This included painting a statue by Philippa Bowers, which was part of a Goddess fountain when I had my café back in the nineties. About two feet tall, glazed in a matt green, cradling a large vibrant purple amethyst cluster, we named her Hypatia after the Greek mathematician, who was killed by having her flesh flayed with oyster shells.

 

We would add a few drops of bleach each week to the fountain water to keep down bacteria. After a dozen years, bleach deposits both built up and began to decay parts of her face and body, as well as loosening the crystals in her belly. After I closed Herland, Hypatia came to live in my garden, along with an assortment of other broken-nosed and gently damaged goddesses.

 

Being flayed was a feeling I related to, and during those dozen years, I got over a dozen tattoos. Much of this was a reclaiming of my body, my beliefs, and my standards of beauty. A way to be comfortable in my skin. Everyone has scars on the inside - mine are on the outside, and they are pretty, colorful, and make for good stories.

 

Now in my fifties, I'm experiencing a new body image issue, that of becoming the crone, the hag, the elder. What does it mean to age gracefully? What does it mean to express my authentic self? I am questioning dying my hair, working to accept my Buddha belly, while pondering the delight in creases, folds, and wrinkles.

 

I decided to paint Hypatia, to reclaim her as a symbol of my croning. Her hair is silver white, with a crown of pearls and roses. As I painted her thin hair, fine wrinkles, smile lines, tattoos, and scars, I thought of Ani DiFranco's line, "I got highways for stretch marks, see where I've grown." I think about all the ways to love a body that is half a century old, the ways to treat myself with tenderness and respect. Just like my old car, this body needs more regular tunings, more quality fuel, and a little more lubricant.

How will you re-create yourself today?

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

Tarot for the Dogs

I had so much fun making my deck, The Tarot of a Rambling Rose. Now I'm working on the guidebook - it could take a bit. Meanwhile, I've sold half of my first printing, and will not reprint until next year, so if you're interested, send me a message!

Part of the fun was choosing a particular animal for each card. It seemed obvious to choose birds for the air cards, marine mammals for the water cards, etc. but what came up in both the minor and major Arcana were dogs. Now, I am a cat person, hence my companion calico cat through my journey through the tarot, but as I contemplated each card, I thought about dogs in my life...

Sweet Maisy dog, black lab, constant companion at the Herland Women's Book-Café during her time of seizures. Maisy was transpetual - a cat trapped in a dog's body, as honored in my book, Vibrissae. We see her here in the Eight of Pentacles as the loyal, steadfast friend who witnesses the hero as she carves the tree of life into the church walls. When you pull this card, notice being the apprentice, connect with peers, guilds, and colleagues to both offer and receive support in developing yourself now.

Doberman - as noted in Carolyn Gage's play, No Dobermans Allowed. Fitting for the Hierophant, the False Priest, who is unpredictable, power-hungry, and generally full of themselves. On one hand, "Abstinence makes the Church grow fondlers," and on the other hand, if you pull this card, maybe "let your karma run over your dogma."

We see both a domestic dog and a wolf on the Moon card, representing both our tame and wild selves, what ebbs and flows, but both parts want to howl at certain times, uniting with the pack, raising our voices, releasing our sorrows. Much like during COVID, when folks would bang pots and pans or howl from balconies, this card invites us to connect with our neighbors, friends, and allies in the most basic of ways.

The Healer’s Manifesto

  

Breathe

Hold the Space

Ask Deep, Precise Questions

Listen and Reflect

Keep the Silence

Have Clarity in Your Vision

Have Wisdom in Your Words

See the Success

Breathe 

Smile

Repeat

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