I came back from Thanksgiving in Massholia with a new fur hat and vintage coat, and have been called “ma’am” three million times in 24 hours. I’d be cross except dowager chic is my all-time favorite look and I always knew I’d be a tough old broad someday. So here I am. Armed for whatever messed-up mishegos is next for our beleaguered country, at the midpoint of my life if I’m lucky, and ma’am like a motherfucker.
Today is a full moon—a super moon in stabilizing Taurus, no less—and full moons are for release. It is not in my nature to feel relentless anger and grief. But for the last week, I’ve been unable to spin the tragedy we just birthed into the world. Spin is how we got into this fucked-up mess in the first place, and I feel a bottomless despair. So today I’m surrendering my sorrow, my rage, and my hopelessness to something bigger than myself. I am surrendering it to Mary, to Yemaya, to Oshun, to the divine feminine that has always nourished me and everyone else even when we paid her no mind. The powerful, limitlessly kind energy that I felt as a lonely, terrified child unshored by anyone or anything else. I hope I will be brave again tomorrow but today I am at my littlest and most helpless. I need a strong, unsolicited embrace. I need a meal cooked tenderly by someone else. I need a cool hand on my forehand. I need a mother, so today I am giving it up to Her.
My birthday falls on the day before Trump begins his oligarchy. Because I believe that what you do on your birthday sets the tone for your whole year, I already am planning to be in D.C. to participate in all and every protest that weekend, including of course the Billion Women March (yes, I’ve upgraded its title). The nation’s capital is not his. It is ours.
I came back from Thanksgiving in Massholia with a new fur hat and vintage coat, and have been called “ma’am” three million times in 24 hours. I’d be cross except dowager chic is my all-time favorite look and I always knew I’d be a tough old broad someday. So here I am. Armed for whatever messed-up mishegos is next for our beleaguered country, at the midpoint of my life if I’m lucky, and ma’am like a motherfucker.
Today is a full moon—a super moon in stabilizing Taurus, no less—and full moons are for release. It is not in my nature to feel relentless anger and grief. But for the last week, I’ve been unable to spin the tragedy we just birthed into the world. Spin is how we got into this fucked-up mess in the first place, and I feel a bottomless despair. So today I’m surrendering my sorrow, my rage, and my hopelessness to something bigger than myself. I am surrendering it to Mary, to Yemaya, to Oshun, to the divine feminine that has always nourished me and everyone else even when we paid her no mind. The powerful, limitlessly kind energy that I felt as a lonely, terrified child unshored by anyone or anything else. I hope I will be brave again tomorrow but today I am at my littlest and most helpless. I need a strong, unsolicited embrace. I need a meal cooked tenderly by someone else. I need a cool hand on my forehand. I need a mother, so today I am giving it up to Her.
My birthday falls on the day before Trump begins his oligarchy. Because I believe that what you do on your birthday sets the tone for your whole year, I already am planning to be in D.C. to participate in all and every protest that weekend, including of course the Billion Women March (yes, I’ve upgraded its title). The nation’s capital is not his. It is ours.