Love Letters to the Universe #10: The Female of the Species…

17 Feb

Dear Universe,

As I’ve said before, it is under good advisement from all kinds of scientific types that gratitude equates with happiness. I like being happy, so let me tell you, sweet universe, what I am grateful for: peace. I think back on all those wonderful moments, sharing a dinner and a laugh with friends, building a fort as a kid in the woods with my best chums, doing the gardening with the Mrs. as my children frolicked in the springtime mud. All of these moments share one blessed trait: they were peaceful.

Should not this trait be a universal ingredient in every plan, action and reaction that we undertake?

Should not we, anxious to increase our happiness so that life becomes a dance down the street to the mysterious train junction at the end with teary-eyed hairless monkeys you love to wave you off, celebrate this thing called peace?

We have a day for it: March 8th: It is the International Day of World Peace. Not too shabby. But, I don’t see a lot of celebrating. To the hairless monkey the only way to really mark something as important is to gather with loved ones, eat and, yes, sometimes drink too much. We need to celebrate it. We need to celebrate you, sweet universe.

But, I see a group of hairless monkeys long ago designated another thing to celebrate on this day of days. It is the female of the species: women. That’s right, March 8th is the International Day Of Women. Which is odd, because that was the second thing that was on my list of things to be grateful for. Ah, women…

I have seen my daughters and nieces busting out into dance as soon as they could walk. It is such that I know that as an old man, free to travel in the wind, I shall see two such creatures of some other skin color or tongue, and they will dance, and i will laugh and say: “I remember that joy!” Thanks to them.

I have seen my wife weep with worry over her little ones, but stay strong and wise and comforting in the long nights. I have seen my mother set on a face which would frighten a terrorist out of his insanity, all to ensure I had what I needed and was treated as I should. To the mothers I cry out: Thank you!

My nanny, laughed and played cards with us when someone had been taken to the hospital. My grandmothers sat and imparted me with stories of when automobiles were new, or Floods took away most of the Northeast Kingdom. My nanny held on long enough to hold my hand, tell me that I was beautiful, before she jumped up out of her skin and ran toward the summerlands. I have learned to thank you every time the sun’s angle is pleasing.

And as a gift of thanks I give you this idea: That women dance around the wheel of the year. At each direction in the wheel stands another woman, tall proud daughters all.

In the East, where the rising sun lights every golden tomorrow, stands the Empress. It is she who seeks control. As a child at the temple or in the classroom she had all the answers. Here she is organizing all things in the patterns that will best please. At her height of power the Empress knows that sometimes brute strength cannot move a mountain, but with a little elbow grease, anything is possible. What the Empress lacks in tact, she makes up for in honesty.

In the South, where the youthful summer stays ever so long, waves the gracious Princess. It is she who seeks influence.  Look at how radiant she appears! You feel important just being in her presence, don’t you? You should be, because the Princess is importance personified; she has a list of names of people who justly are fed up with the way things are running around here. Don’t you agree? You will if she smiles at you, I guarantee it. This natural diplomat is not above giving a tease if that’s what it takes.

In the West, where the sun sleeps under a velvet sky, the Witch searches for the meaning behind the moon. She won’t always tell, but she just might know, too. She seeks what she seeks in this mystery of life, but she does so using her intuition. Unorthodox, bohemian creatures slinking their way through libraries and berry patches and into your dreams and your heart, the Witches keep the history and are sought after for their wisdom. Blessed be those who show kindness to a witch, as Witches keep without judgement all manner of company, be it with goblins, boggarts or very hairy werewolves. Just never, never, ever cross one enough to kindle her ire!

And finally, last and not least, The Mother holds the drinking gourd in the north. She seeks connection. This protective nurturer is the heart of any community. She is the binder of wounds and the counter of heads. She is the worrying sweetheart that will call the alarm, sit through the long night, and anoint the dead. She is the sensual beauty who endures all with the dignity of love. Although she carries a blade of guilt, she does not need to unsheath it, for to see such a mother cry would upset any heart that had even a shred of humanity to madness.

And there you have it- the four women, these Valkyries of grace and wonder.

I thank you, sweet universe, for all of them.

But, don’t be jealous. When I see these hairless female monkeys walking by on a calm summer night, I’m really thinking about you, my sweet.

To tell you the truth, I’ve been too shy to write before now. Now I am forty with streaks of gray in my hair. Now, I look about me and fully realize the beauty all around me. I’m old enough to appreciate the changing faces of the moon: or as William Butler Yeats wrote:

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true;

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

I love you.

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