Issara Simone Edwards's Blog

[It’s the end of an era and the start of something new. I’ve been primarily working with goddess archetypes as part of my practice since I was fourteen. Now it seems its time for me to move on. But, in honour of the feminine archetypes that have guided me thus far, this is the goddess series.]

Persephone: Do you believe in perfection? (I hadn’t expected someone so young. This young girl sat before me, she looks barely fourteen, a school girl in blue jeans and a T-shirts that says: “Boy Bye” on it. Her hair is short around her ears, a pixie cut the colour of dried leaves mulched by rain.)

Me: I believe in imperfection, that it’s the imperfections of things that can make something beautiful, make something perfect. Perfection lies in flaws.

Persephone: That’s a nice sentiment, but I don’t believe you. Don’t look shocked. We judge each other too much, we judge each other’s flaws, our imperfections. What do people judge about you?

Me: That I don’t have a job. That I’ve given up real opportunities to focus on a writing career that has yet to bare any real, cashy fruit. That I live at home with my mother, that I don’t have a social life, that I watch documentaries, that I’ve taken up knitting like an old person. That, depending on who you talk to, I’m either too fat or too skinny. Oh, what else, my fashion sense, my spending habits, my skin colour, my gender, my relationship status…

Persephone: And what do you judge about people?

Me: I try not to judge. Okay, don’t look at me like that. I judge women who subconsciously manipulate men to get what they want, rather than just asking for what they want. I judge women who knowingly have affairs with married men, then act like they’re the victim, not the wife. 

Persephone: And why do you judge these women?

Me: Because I’m a master manipulator too, and I hate that about myself. Because I think women should have more pride in themselves, stop hating each other and fighting over men. They’re not rare, they’re literally everywhere, you can even find the odd priest in a nunnery. 

Persephone: That brings me to my next question. What do you judge about yourself?

Me: Everything that people judge about me, and more. I can’t help but see everyone’s judgements as a reflection. Sometimes it feels like people can see inside me, pick out what I’m insecure about and shove it right in my face.

Persephone: People are good at that.

Me: Yeah.

Persephone: I was always judged for being too quiet, but I never judged myself for it, not until… The women who raised me, the women who surrounded me for most of my early life, they were continuously judging each other. They were like clandestine little battles, subtle, but obvious if you really looked. They would battle over their looks, their husbands and lovers, the lavishness of their homes, even the talents of their children. Supporting each other wasn’t second nature, not unless something could be gained in return or held over the other. 

I observed all this, I absorbed it, soaked it all in, the way quiet children do. Because of this, I resided myself to the fact that, if I wanted to be more than that, then I had to remove myself from that world, I would do the opposite of everything they did. 

As soon as I was old enough, and knew that I would not be questioned for not knowing my own mind, I pledged I would remain a maiden for the rest of my life. It wasn’t that I blamed men for the faults of women, but I saw the constant pursuit and fighting over men as something that I personally wanted to avoid. I wanted my life to be a contemplation of nature, a life of learning and wondering. I wanted to be surrounded by likeminded souls and show others that there was another path. 

I was naïve, and I misjudged the brutality of the women I was leaving behind. I misjudged the level of denial a person can cultivate when confronted with a way of life that makes them ashamed of the way they’ve lived theirs. 

Aphrodite had her son lead me away from my sister maidens one day when we were all out picking flowers. Unbeknownst to me, unbeknownst to anyone, she had sold me, manipulated Hades into leaving his home so he can take me as a prize, as his unwilling wife. 

It didn’t matter what I wanted, only that she show any woman who had thoughts of joining me, that I was a hypocrite, that I had given up my pledge, and conformed to her standard, just like they should. 

At first, I waited to be rescued, I thought that someone would come, someone would find me. Then I gave up on that and started to blame myself. When Hades had grabbed me, I didn’t fight him, I didn’t scream out, I was scared, yes, but that hadn’t been the reason. I remained quiet because deep down I knew that no one would help me. If I had screamed for help, what would my friends have done? What could they have done? The moment I saw him, I was alone. It isn’t a woman’s instinct to help her sister, maybe it was once, but somewhere along the way, our competition with each other became a self-betrayal. Each woman is on her own, to fight her own battles. 

Me: But you were rescued.

Persephone: I was cut in half, split down the middle, once I was his, I could never not be, but I could go home and visit my mother every now and again.

Women didn’t have the rights that you do now, women were considered property, to the point where we thought of ourselves as that too. We had one true purpose, our bodies were the vessels of men, and to deny that, to suggest that we weren’t… no one was ever going to truly be on my side.

[It’s the end of an era and the start of something new. I’ve been primarily working with goddess archetypes as part of my practice since I was fourteen. Now it seems its time for me to move on. But, in honour of the feminine archetypes that have guided me thus far, this is the goddess series.]

You carefully pour the hot water over the leaves and petals that circle the bottom of the teapot. The aroma hits you immediately, filling you up with a sense of warmth, promise and time. You move in closer, inhale the rising mist a little deeper, it smells like summer and makes you smile. You place the lid on the pot, and move it to the table, just in front of the candles. You find two cups, and two spoons, and a small bowl of sugar, and place them near the pot. You return to your seat and wait… Pandora takes a seat.

Pandora: I can tell you my story if you want. If you tell me yours.

Me: There’s nothing much to tell.

Pandora: Then tell me nothing, and I will listen attentively. (She lifts the teacup in front of her and holds it to her lips. She inhales deeply before taking a sip.)

Me: I took up knitting, sometime before Christmas, I’m knitting a patchwork blanket with the intention of making it a family heirloom. I want it to be a record, a physical representation of a moment in history, depicting me, my family, my surroundings. I’ve put together a small work box, with knitting needles, wool, pins and found and gathered objects that each mean something to me. This will be part of the history I’m creating, something that can be passed down, something that stories can be told about. 

I’ve never felt like I have a history, stories about times before I was born, about my family ancestry, I’ve collected from eavesdropping, being invisible I could do that. No one talks directly to me, adults talk to other adults and even in my thirties, I’m not considered part of them, I’m separate. The point is, I envy English families, white families, who have a history and traditions. I envy Asian families who have culture and a base which to build on. 

I know my family are from Dominica, I know my great-grandmother’s name, and that’s it and my grandfather’s name, but that’s it, they’re just names. My grandmother and step-grandfather moved to England together with their children, leaving my mum and her brother behind. When my mum was nine, she was brought to England because apparently my grandmother begged and begged. This is something he likes to remind us of, we wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t exist. 

I don’t really know all that much about my father, I sometimes think he barely knows himself. I only discovered his real name after seeing it on a letter in his old apartment. He, apparently only found out his real name when he was nineteen and asked his mother for his birth certificate. He lives about ten minutes away and I never visit, a fact he constantly reminds me of when I see him in passing. I don’t have the courage to tell him I don’t trust him, he has a history of turning on me when I say something he doesn’t like.

I have no history, no culture, nothing that is my own, no base to build myself on. I tell myself this frees me, I can be open to anything, the whole of history is my history. Any culture I want is mine to taste. It’s not enough though. This blanket is a start. It can’t replace photographs that go back generations or jewellery that’s been passed down, pocket watches from ancestors that served in wars or even a dried flower from a young bride’s bouquet, but it’s a start. 

Pandora: There’s a tradition, a very old one. Women carry their stories inside themselves. We tell our stories over and over in our minds until they become imbedded in us. Our stories can either empower us or enrage us, they become like secret children, waiting to be born. They rarely are, and because of this, the world remains the same, in perfect dysfunctional harmony.

Me: What happens when the stories are born?

Pandora: The world burns. Is there anymore tea?

Me: Of course. You promised you’d tell me your story. (I pour out another cup for her, a little of the hot liquid splashes back against my hand, burning it slightly.)

Pandora: I promised no such thing. I said I would, that’s different than a promise.

My story. My story is exactly that, a story. I was the first woman ever created, the model that all other women were based on. I was given something by the gods and goddesses, blessed with something no man had. I was given a hollow inside of me, an empty space that held all things, the potential for life and the potential for death. I was an archetype, nothing more, a representation of what it meant to be a woman. A woman’s hollow, her jar, her womb, can bring pleasure, can birth life. Once a month it will bleed and cause pain and suffering. Then over time this cycle will stop, life dries up, age and sickness come, followed by inevitable death. A woman becomes the symbol for the passing of time and the foretelling of time ending, for everyone. That’s all I am, that’s all I ever was, an hourglass with the sand running through. 

Me: Well, this is the most depressing conversation I’ve ever had.

Pandora: No, I’m sure you’ve had worse.

Me: Yeah, actually, yeah. It’s limiting, isn’t it. I find it limiting. There are currently things we’re not allowed to talk about, certain things we have to pretend. Deep down, that’s what being a woman means to me, pretending. I’m limited, not even by anyone else, but by my own body, by myself. Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong in this world, I don’t fit in its structure, it isn’t designed for me. I have to work around my body and its limitations, which means I can’t fit into the world I’m supposed to fit into. Or I have to pretend, I have to deny things.

Pandora: The world never used to be like this. We were more… Imagine a world that moves in cycles, you work when you can, and you rest when you can. Work isn’t about money or social standing, but about the betterment of yourself and the world around you. 

Me: I don’t live in that world.

Pandora: But you used to, we all did. Our bodies are naturally attuned to that world. We aren’t limited, just connected, to the natural cycle of all things. I can’t change the world back for you, but…

Me: I can?

Pandora: No. Well, maybe your little section of it. Create your own world that you can survive in. That’s all that I can give you for now. Thank you for the tea.

Concepts of the body are culturally specific constructions, having meanings and functions ascribed to them. What’s interesting though is that a great majority of cultures have stories of bodily transformations. These stories range from turning into beasts, animals or gods, to the metamorphosis aspects of Christianity, God turning into man.

Most cultures also have images of the perfectible body, idealised constructions based on notions of goodness, beauty and or power. Conforming to these aspects of ‘self’ that we think would be accepted by others is not something I think we are even consciously aware of anymore, it’s just the norm. Though, if we set these, mostly unattainable standards, and force ourselves into contortionist worthy shapes, to live up to them, are we creating false selves? To have an authentic self that conforms to a standard of living that we are naturally attuned to, do we have to step out of the society we’ve created and create our own worlds, unique to us? Or put the work into changing the whole world? Are we all just fictional characters, parodies of what we believe should be normal? My gut says yes, everyone is fiction, we’re all just stories.

[It’s the end of an era and the start of something new. I’ve been primarily working with goddess archetypes as part of my practice since I was fourteen. Now it seems its time for me to move on. But, in honour of the feminine archetypes that have guided me thus far, this is the goddess series.]

When I was getting dressed this morning, I knew exactly what I was going to write. Now that I’m sat here however…

Medusa: Why are you writing this, what is its purpose? What do you have to say that only you can say, in a unique and personal way? Who is this for, what message do you have to give or portray? Why is this important? Why should people read it? (I expected a woman with vicious looking snakes for hair, a grotesque face and fangs dripping with venom, not this woman sat before me. She looks like a nun, a simple pleasant face, dark brown hair combed neatly and parted in the middle, olive skin that matches her long tunic dress.)

Me: That’s easy. There is no point to this, I have nothing important or interesting to say and no one’s going to read this, maybe me when I’m editing. Done. 

Medusa: Fine. The hard way it is. What do you know of me, tell me my story.

Me: Surely you know your own story?

Medusa: I know it, I want to know if you do. Tell me a story, telling stories is what you do.

Me: You were… Not many stories are told about Medusa, none that start at the beginning anyway. Medusa is the gorgon, the hideous monster that all men fear. If the tale was started from the beginning, naming her the villain would become uncomfortable, and sit unsettled in the stomach. 

Medusa was beautiful, adored by all who saw her. The problem with Medusa, however, was not her looks, but her vanity. A woman must be beautiful, but a woman must also be modest, she must never know she’s beautiful, she must be oblivious to it. 

Medusa’s beauty caught the eye of the sea god Poseidon, who upon seeing her, had to have her, whether she wanted it or not. He chased her relentlessly, refusing to accept that she wanted nothing to do with him. Eventually she came to a stop at a temple dedicated to Artemis. She felt she would be safe there, under the protection of the goddess. When Poseidon found her, he showed no respect for her, or for the goddess’ temple, and raped her.

Artemis became furious at the violation of her sacred space, she decided the best punishment would be to take away what Medusa cherished the most, her beauty. She transformed Medusa into a repulsive monster with snakes for hair, and if any man were to look upon her, they would turn to stone.

Medusa: That’s the story that everyone knows?

Me: Yes.

Medusa: How simple people have become. You should call Pandora back, you should hear her story, I fear you’ve got her all wrong too.

Me: What’s your story then.

Medusa: You got the beginning nearly right, but the rest is all wrong. For a start, in your tongue, my name would be ‘Wisdom’, I was named in honour of the goddess’s I grew up worshipping. They were the wise women of my world, and my mother wanted me to share that. She wanted me to have the intelligence of the goddess, and not be limited like she was, and her mother before her. 

Poseidon did pursue me, and I did run to the temple of Artemis for sanctuary. She couldn’t protect me from being raped, the gods have no power over each other, but they do have power over us. In my grief and despair, Artemis and I made a deal. She would give me the strength and wisdom I needed to never be hurt like that again, and to protect other women. The women who came to me became my sisters, and we became known as the gorgons. 

I understand why, the men who would eventually write my story would change the facts, from here my tale becomes a little less wholesome, brutal in fact. 

I made a home for myself, a sanctuary for me and any woman who needed it, but soon word got out, what man can resist stories of a house filled with beautiful women. Blessed by Artemis, I kept myself safe and I taught my sisters to do the same. Whenever men came to our home with ill-intentions, we would castrate them. We displayed their severed members to deter further trouble, until eventually men became too petrified to even look at us. 

Now, doesn’t that make more sense then a woman punishing another woman for being raped? Women only came to hate other women, because men told us we did, over and over, until we started to believe it. 

Speak to Pandora again, let her tell you her story.

Me: Okay.

There’s a scene in Dogma (1999), where the muse played by Salma Hayek says that God’s a woman. She told the story of God to the writers of the Bible, who were all men and because of their own gender bias, they wrote that God was a man. Any story told is selective, we leave things out we don’t like, we add things we wish were true. 

We always want to know the unknowable and when something is only partially revealed to us we seek to know more. I want to know more. I want to know everything. Don’t you? Why is Pandora always late?

[It’s the end of an era and the start of something new. I’ve been primarily working with goddess archetypes as part of my practice since I was fourteen. Now it seems its time for me to move on. But, in honour of the feminine archetypes that have guided me thus far, this is the goddess series.]

Pandora: What gave birth to feminism?

Me: There was a need for it.

Pandora: Did the women of your previous era really think that they could be treated any differently?

Me: Yes, and women are now. It just may not seem like it sometimes. 

In my second year of university, I wrote an essay about the shift in society from the matriarchal to the patriarchal. It was called ‘The Rise of God as the Father and the Fall of Women as the Originators of Sin.’ This has little importance at this time, but whilst researching this, I was reintroduced to the idea of Aeons, that I first came across whilst reading Aleister Crowley. 

The Aeons describe the three phases in human society, using Egyptian deities as representations of those phases. The first Aeon was the Aeon of Isis, marking maternal power over the Earth, the worship of female deities and matriarchal societies. The second Aeon was the Aeon of Osiris, the paternal power of patriarchal societies and the worship of God. The third and current Aeon is the Aeon of Horus, the worship of the Son and individuality.

Whilst researching for said essay, I read about how some historians believed that women facilitated in the shift to patriarchal society, in effect restricting themselves to certain limiting roles. Women, apparently, encouraged farming, in a Felicity Smoak manner I assume. In doing so, made it so that women were only needed for bringing new workers into the world to tend to these farms. Women restricted themselves to the home, made themselves into factories and housekeepers and four-star chefs for the hungry workers.

If that’s over now, if we’re in the age of Horus, past the worship of the Earth, past the worship of God, and present in an eon of individuality, it suggests that society has passed feminism and passed patriarchy. Should we be living in an androgynous age, where gender doesn’t matter, beauty… matters a little bit? Shouldn’t we be living in a liberal, generous, open society? What happened? Has it just not arrived yet?

There’s an argument amongst scientists that says that humans may be the first extinction proof species, due to our resourcefulness and ability to adapt. Some even say that humans have stopped evolving, that we have reached the peak of our biological potential and any further advancement would now be artificial. It’s also argued that if we have stopped evolving, that we may all become like clones, different, but the same.

With the merging of cultures that modern migration and technology has brought, it can be said that we are slowly becoming a monoculture, where diversity is disappearing. In some ways, that would appear to be a good thing, no religious wars, no gender bias, no racism, however casual Mrs. “Why do you need to buy black tights, you’re already black?” (“Really?! Did you really just ask me that?!”) Could it also mean the loss of culture, of identity, of ownership of your own history? What would that mean for writing? There would no longer be a ‘Black Writer’s section’ in Waterstones, that’s for sure, but would there be any point in writing, in sharing a point of view that everyone would already have and understand?

Pandora: You’re afraid of the loss of individuality. I wouldn’t worry about that. No one is an individual, everyone living has been informed and influenced by something or someone else. (Pandora’s auburn hair wraps around the length of her entire body, breaking into rough looking ends at her feet. Underneath it all, I can just make out a sapphire blue dress.)

Me: That’s cynical.

Pandora: And true. You are everyone you’ve ever met. Everything you’ve ever read or seen.

Me: That’s not true. There are people in my life who I swear are only in it, so I know what not to be, how not to behave and how not to treat others. 

Pandora: Things you wouldn’t know if they weren’t there to influence you. I’m not saying there aren’t opposing views and people, just that those people are grouped, not singular. There are other people in the world who think like you, you’re not an individual, just rare…ish.

[It’s the end of an era and the start of something new. I’ve been primarily working with goddess archetypes as part of my practice since I was fourteen. Now it seems its time for me to move on. But, in honour of the feminine archetypes that have guided me thus far, this is the goddess series.]

Pandora: What gave birth to feminism?

Me: There was a need for it.

Pandora: Did the women of your previous era really think that they could be treated any differently?

Me: Yes, and women are now. It just may not seem like it sometimes. 

In my second year of university, I wrote an essay about the shift in society from the matriarchal to the patriarchal. It was called ‘The Rise of God as the Father and the Fall of Women as the Originators of Sin.’ This has little importance at this time, but whilst researching this, I was reintroduced to the idea of Aeons, that I first came across whilst reading Aleister Crowley. 

The Aeons describe the three phases in human society, using Egyptian deities as representations of those phases. The first Aeon was the Aeon of Isis, marking maternal power over the Earth, the worship of female deities and matriarchal societies. The second Aeon was the Aeon of Osiris, the paternal power of patriarchal societies and the worship of God. The third and current Aeon is the Aeon of Horus, the worship of the Son and individuality.

Whilst researching for said essay, I read about how some historians believed that women facilitated in the shift to patriarchal society, in effect restricting themselves to certain limiting roles. Women, apparently, encouraged farming, in a Felicity Smoak manner I assume. In doing so, made it so that women were only needed for bringing new workers into the world to tend to these farms. Women restricted themselves to the home, made themselves into factories and housekeepers and four-star chefs for the hungry workers.

If that’s over now, if we’re in the age of Horus, past the worship of the Earth, past the worship of God, and present in an eon of individuality, it suggests that society has passed feminism and passed patriarchy. Should we be living in an androgynous age, where gender doesn’t matter, beauty… matters a little bit? Shouldn’t we be living in a liberal, generous, open society? What happened? Has it just not arrived yet?

There’s an argument amongst scientists that says that humans may be the first extinction proof species, due to our resourcefulness and ability to adapt. Some even say that humans have stopped evolving, that we have reached the peak of our biological potential and any further advancement would now be artificial. It’s also argued that if we have stopped evolving, that we may all become like clones, different, but the same.

With the merging of cultures that modern migration and technology has brought, it can be said that we are slowly becoming a monoculture, where diversity is disappearing. In some ways, that would appear to be a good thing, no religious wars, no gender bias, no racism, however casual Mrs. “Why do you need to buy black tights, you’re already black?” (“Really?! Did you really just ask me that?!”) Could it also mean the loss of culture, of identity, of ownership of your own history? What would that mean for writing? There would no longer be a ‘Black Writer’s section’ in Waterstones, that’s for sure, but would there be any point in writing, in sharing a point of view that everyone would already have and understand?

Pandora: You’re afraid of the loss of individuality. I wouldn’t worry about that. No one is an individual, everyone living has been informed and influenced by something or someone else. (Pandora’s auburn hair wraps around the length of her entire body, breaking into rough looking ends at her feet. Underneath it all, I can just make out a sapphire blue dress.)

Me: That’s cynical.

Pandora: And true. You are everyone you’ve ever met. Everything you’ve ever read or seen.

Me: That’s not true. There are people in my life who I swear are only in it, so I know what not to be, how not to behave and how not to treat others. 

Pandora: Things you wouldn’t know if they weren’t there to influence you. I’m not saying there aren’t opposing views and people, just that those people are grouped, not singular. There are other people in the world who think like you, you’re not an individual, just rare…ish.

[It’s the end of an era and the start of something new. I’ve been primarily working with goddess archetypes as part of my practice since I was fourteen. Now it seems its time for me to move on. But, in honour of the feminine archetypes that have guided me thus far, this is the goddess series.]

Hecate: The job of the alchemist is to act upon and manipulate matter through studying, analysing and combining them with other elements. This, to me, describes, perfectly, what it has become to be a woman. (An old woman sits before me, her grey hair twisted in a plait around her head forming a makeshift crown. Her long black robe smells musty, like dust and heavy incense.) 

Me: You’re not supposed to be here yet.

Hecate: I’ll come back later then.

Me: Send Pandora in if you see her, she’s late.

We see alchemy as the combination of magic and science. In fact, the alchemist used chemistry, physics, maths, astronomy and spirituality to accomplish what was known as The Great Work, the Philosopher’s Stone or the Elixir of Life. I don’t wish to accomplish anything so big in my lifetime, maybe, for right now, I could just finish this? So, maybe I should get to the point and stop going off in all these irrelevant tangents?  Pandora, get a move on!

Wait, what did she mean about alchemy being an allegory for what women have become? Is that what women do, study people and the world around them to learn how best to manipulate? Is that the only way to get anything in this world? 

I stopped watching Arrow (2012 – 2020) because Felicity Smoak, was irritating me so much. She controlled everything around her, but through the most underhanded, slippery ways, but then never owned up to it. “Oh, Oliver, don’t kill people, it’s bad, I can’t possibly be with a murderer.” “Oh, Oliver, this guy was mean to me, forget everything I said before because he needs to die now. I can’t possibly be with you if this bad man isn’t dead.” I may be paraphrasing, but I’m honestly not far off from the actual script. 

[It’s the end of an era and the start of something new. I’ve been primarily working with goddess archetypes as part of my practice since I was fourteen. Now it seems its time for me to move on. But, in honour of the feminine archetypes that have guided me thus far, this is the goddess series.]

Hecate: The job of the alchemist is to act upon and manipulate matter through studying, analysing and combining them with other elements. This, to me, describes, perfectly, what it has become to be a woman. (An old woman sits before me, her grey hair twisted in a plait around her head forming a makeshift crown. Her long black robe smells musty, like dust and heavy incense.) 

Me: You’re not supposed to be here yet.

Hecate: I’ll come back later then.

Me: Send Pandora in if you see her, she’s late.

We see alchemy as the combination of magic and science. In fact, the alchemist used chemistry, physics, maths, astronomy and spirituality to accomplish what was known as The Great Work, the Philosopher’s Stone or the Elixir of Life. I don’t wish to accomplish anything so big in my lifetime, maybe, for right now, I could just finish this? So, maybe I should get to the point and stop going off in all these irrelevant tangents?  Pandora, get a move on!

Wait, what did she mean about alchemy being an allegory for what women have become? Is that what women do, study people and the world around them to learn how best to manipulate? Is that the only way to get anything in this world? 

I stopped watching Arrow (2012 – 2020) because Felicity Smoak, was irritating me so much. She controlled everything around her, but through the most underhanded, slippery ways, but then never owned up to it. “Oh, Oliver, don’t kill people, it’s bad, I can’t possibly be with a murderer.” “Oh, Oliver, this guy was mean to me, forget everything I said before because he needs to die now. I can’t possibly be with you if this bad man isn’t dead.” I may be paraphrasing, but I’m honestly not far off from the actual script. 

[It’s the end of an era and the start of something new. I’ve been primarily working with goddess archetypes as part of my practice since I was fourteen. Now it seems its time for me to move on. But, in honour of the feminine archetypes that have guided me thus far, this is the goddess series.]

Eve: Silence can be a weapon, you know. Not just a defence, but an active, formidable weapon. I’ve held my silence well, you could learn a lot from it. 

I’ve watched you, as I’ve watched all of history pass before me. You wear your silence, then shrug it off when it gets too heavy. All your conflicts, all your problems stem from your inability to hold your tongue, even when everything in you is screaming, incessantly, to tell whoever it is that’s hurt you, exactly what you think. That’s real power, that’s real strength. The strength of your mother and her mother, the strength that you lack, the strength that you see as weakness, to keep your silence. (She sits still like a plant, stationery and rooted. She’s tiny, one of those classically petite women, a mousey ballerina with a small nose, thin lips and huge wet eyes. Her light brown hair looks dirty, greasy and unwashed, but the rest of her is spotless.)

Me: Sometimes I think that I shouldn’t have to be silent, it isn’t fair. Why do I have to take everything but give nothing back? Why do we have to keep our silence?

Eve: Because what we have to say would be truth, and no one wants to hear the truth if they can hear a lie instead.

To others I seem lifeless and boring, this isn’t an observation I’ve made, this is what I’ve been told, to my face. I live in my head and that’s seen as a pointless existence by most, I get that. In this world I am lifeless, all my passion, all my living goes into worlds of my own creation, into the study of the universe and everything that resides within it. 

A guy I used to know once said to me that he wanted to see everything. I said to him: “I don’t want to see everything, I want to know everything.” He told me that was impossible, he didn’t understand. I know that life is finite, so it isn’t really about knowing everything. It’s about filling myself up with as much of everything as I possibly can before I die. That brings up other things though, like the point. What’s the point of gathering, hoarding knowledge, if I’m going to die and it will all be lost? 

I sometimes imagine the future, this world as we know it has ended, a new species has evolved to replace us. They look at all our creations as ancient relics and study them to gain insight into who we were. Perhaps one of the things they’ll find is my laptop and they’ll find a way to give it life. They’ll translate these words into whatever language they’ll speak, and they’ll know a little fragment of this world, of my world. 

[It’s the end of an era and the start of something new. I’ve been primarily working with goddess archetypes as part of my practice since I was fourteen. Now it seems its time for me to move on. But, in honour of the feminine archetypes that have guided me thus far, this is the goddess series.]

You may have figured this out already, you probably have. Writing is the only safe place in the universe. It’s the place where you can’t speak your mind and be yourself. It’s a private space, where no one can hear you, but where you can still say what needs to be said. So, you pick up a pen and begin to write. You write your opinions, your ideas, your history. You write about the people who raised you, about their voices in your head. You feel your fingers dancing across the keys, you feel empowered. When you’re done, when all of it has been emptied out, when your fingers feel tight and locked, cut a small length of duct tape and place it over your mouth. Remember it is not your place to get angry or upset, you must never slip up and speak again. Disobeying these rules would be like disobeying words that are tattooed on your bones. Yet, also remember, that it’s okay to be awful, as a woman, you’re expected to be a catty, and nasty creature. You are a descendant of Lilith, you’re unclean, made from sediment, rock, slime. It’s your nature to be disobedient, to be disgusting, you’re God’s afterthought, you’re a mistake.

Despite not being raised Catholic, I have always been aware that my family are Catholic. I was christened, but not as a Catholic, as a Christian, because the Catholic Church wouldn’t christen the baby of a single mother. When I look at photos from that day, I only recognise three people, my mother, my grandmother and my uncle. My godparents are also in the photos, but I don’t know who they are, they’re strangers to me. This might be the reason I’ve never questioned my questioning of religion; or felt anyway about being drawn to a demon named Lilith, but maybe not. If I think about it, there is a dark undertone to all things, we long to peek behind the black curtain and get a glimpse of the other side. We’re drawn to horror movies and novels that explore the darker aspects of reality because it not only provides a break from the routine, but a realisation that even if our lives suck, at least we’re not being chased by zombies. But, maybe it goes even deeper than that, maybe our obsession with the darker things are primal, maybe we’re born in darkness and secretly all crave a return to it. We want to explore the darker aspects of our personalities without putting ourselves in any real danger or losing ourselves in it. We want to know ourselves, all of ourselves, no matter how raw and untamed.

Naamah: Why are you writing this? You know I have to question this, right? What about this is enjoyable to you? It’s half past seven, and you’re still here, still typing away. I’m curious as to why. (She flicks back her red hair with a swift twitch of her wrist. The movement is so instinctive and over so quickly, that her hands are back on her lap before I can blink. She stares at me with an expression that is almost blank, like it’s painted on, like she’s not even really here, but there’s something just behind, some hint of life, a flickering ghost light.)

Me: I guess I have a lot to say, years of silence and years of being unseen. 

Naamah: Self-pity, that’s why you’re writing this?

Me: This isn’t a pity party, I like being invisible, it’s my superpower. I see and hear all, and no one notices me. So not pity. 

Naamah: I don’t believe you, no one likes to be unseen, it isn’t a superpower, it’s too cruel to be. Let’s talk about something else, something happier. My name means ‘pleasant’ or ‘charming’, depending on who you ask, although sometimes I’m referred to as the unnamed one. What does your name mean?

Me: ‘Journey through the night’, but I was also told it means ‘she who laughs’.

Naamah: Do you laugh a lot?

Me: I find a lot of things funny. Funny or depressing, I alternate between the two.

Naamah: That seems to sum up the world. 

Me: I have a question to ask.

Naamah: Then ask it.

Me: Lilith came to me wearing a red dress, you and Inanna, however…

Naamah: Don’t have a red dress?

Me: Yeah, let’s go with that. 

Naamah: We don’t have any clothes because in our stories we weren’t given any, well, Inanna had hers taken away. Lilith makes her own choices though, she’s not a person you can take things from. (She sighs) My story began a little after my sister Lilith’s. Adam couldn’t be single, so when it came time to make me, Adam wanted to be in on the act. Whether this was because he didn’t trust god to not cut corners like he did the first time, or if he just wanted to see how it was done, I don’t know. I think he wanted to make sure I was done according to his exact specifications, he liked to be in control that man, but I suppose everyone does. 

Once I was done, I was presented to Adam like a prize, but he refused to go near me, he refused to even look at me. He said that he’d thought we were as smooth and perfect on the inside as we were on the outside. I disgusted him. I was full of guts and blood and bile, he ignored the fact that he was too. He said that when he looked at me, that’s all he saw. 

Having no purpose other than to be his wife, I was cast out of Eden and left to wander. I was made to be perfect, and even though I may have been perfect on the outside, my insides fell short. I couldn’t live up to the perfection someone else had imagined in their mind, and because of that, he could never see me. Being unseen is never a superpower, it’s just cruel.

Me: I always imagined that you met up with Lilith, that the two of you would bond over your failed marriages to the same man. I never liked the idea of you being alone. 

Naamah: You wanted me to find someone to journey through the night with?

Me: Yes.

Naamah: Then maybe I did. Maybe Lilith was waiting for me by the Red Sea and we made perfect little lives for ourselves, exploring the world without limits.

[It’s the end of an era and the start of something new. I’ve been primarily working with goddess archetypes as part of my practice since I was fourteen. Now it seems its time for me to move on. But, in honour of the feminine archetypes that have guided me thus far, this is the goddess series.]

I first read about Lilith in an astrology book and I fell in love. I just couldn’t believe what I was reading. Men and women were created at the same time! She was created to be his equal! She left him and went her own way when he refused to treat her as said equal! She was created out of mud and slime and all the scum that was left over after God made Adam? She left Eden without God’s permission because Adam wouldn’t let her be dominant? God sent his angels to drag her back and do her wifely duties? She was the serpent that tempted Eve into being disobedient just like her? She’s a demon who steals children?

I liked Lilith, she spoke to me. She was the woman rejected and punished for her supposed imperfections. She made so much more sense to me then Eve, the simpering little doormat, plus, she was taken out of the bible, she was erased! That made her even more appealing. I was a teenager, I wanted to be bad, I would steal bibles thinking it was ironic. 

I wanted to know everything about Lilith, I got deep into the mythology and drowned myself in it. Probably not normal for a teenager, but I didn’t understand normal. Normal meant lying and faking, dressing up, applying make-up and all that. I wanted to be normal, but not that much. Besides, it required a level of confidence I didn’t and still don’t possess. I don’t think I was ever supposed to be confident, it wasn’t something I could have. “Pride comes before a fall.” That’s what confidence in yourself is met with. Others tell you if you’re good or bad, it’s not something you get to decide for yourself. Lilith didn’t decide if she was good or bad, it was decided for her. 

There’s evidence to suggest though, that Lilith wasn’t an original, she was based on someone a lot older.

 (She arches her back against the chair, her dusty brown skin reminds me of fudge melting in the sun of a hot summer day. Her thick hair tumbles in three long plaits that fall down her head like tentacles. Her eyes blush green, the colour of waxed apples. Her bare feet make small waves in the carpet, enjoying the feel of the plush pile.)

Inanna:  My story began under an apple tree. (She begins, after she’s made herself comfortable.) I’ve found a lot of things to do with sin begin or end with apples. It didn’t start off that way. In my day the apple was something sacred, the apple was a symbol of fertility and womanhood, it belonged to us.

This apple tree was one of my favourites, I had planted it myself, in fact, I had planted all the trees in my garden, as well as the other plants, herbs and flowers. This tree however, had grown so lovely and full, it often got more of my attention. It had the most perfect trunk to lean against, it’s leaves provided shade in the Sumerian heat, and it was positioned next to a soft flowing river that fed the whole of my garden. 

The river water was sweet and clear and tasted like the blossoms that sometimes fell into it. It made me happy to be there, my spot by the river was almost a second home to me. At times I would even fall asleep there, until my father would send someone out to fetch me. 

On an incredibly hot, sticky day, I had gone outside to find some relief. I sat under my tree, hoping the breeze and shade would alleviate the boiling under my skin. Once out there, I quickly realised the only solution to my problem was to strip completely down and jump into the river. I never quite made it. 

I had taken off my clothing and was about to step into the water when I caught a glimpse of myself. My reflection fascinated me, it made me realise how like the earth I was, how like that land, that grew pretty flowers and bore fruit and nourished and fed its children. 

All of this was a revelation to me, I was connected to something, I was a part of a great movement, a cycle of the earth and of life. I wanted to share that revelation, and I’ll admit, I was taken over by it. 

Dumuzi, came walking through my garden. I assumed his father was probably visiting mine, I never questioned his presence. I should probably have been ashamed of my nudity, but I wasn’t, it was as natural to me as my apple tree, no one expects a plant to cover itself or hide. Besides, I was in the privacy of my own garden, he was the one trespassing. 

The stories say that my body seduced him, as though it was something I did, a one-sided violation on my part, he had no will or power of his own against it. But I will tell you now that what we had was a mutual giving, nothing was taken from either one of us.

After, things changed. Things were expected of me, and eventually, after what felt like attacks from all sides, I gave in. I married Dumuzi, surrounded by all our friends and family, and got used to the idea of being a wife. Two people, however, can have different ideas of what a marriage is and should be, and I learnt that the hard way. 

I had expected my life would remain as it was, with the addition of another person to love and journey with. Dumuzi expected that marriage would change me, that my new role in life would be to service him, to clean, to cook and take care of the household. Marriage hadn’t changed me, but it had changed him. He had never expected those things of me before, so it baffled me that he suddenly did. Baffled is a nice way of putting it, I wasn’t baffled at the time. I was disappointed in him, I’d expected more. I was angry, and not just at him, at everyone who had talked me into marriage. He was the only one I could take it out on, so take it out on him is exactly what I did, I sent him to hell.  

Once I’d calmed down, I began to feel guilt. It occurred to me that perhaps sending my husband to the underworld was somewhat, excessive. So, I devised a plan to get him out. I’ll admit that there may have been another motive behind my hasty action. I wanted to put him in his place, to show him that I hadn’t become something that belonged to him. Deep down, a small part of me, wanted to show him that I was the one with power, not him. I could send him to hell and I could get him out. I thought, maybe he would even be grateful when I rescued him, and finally show me the respect I wanted. 

I’d assumed too much, I think that was my sin, my one and only sin mind you, I had assumed. I’d made assumptions about marriage, I’d made assumptions about Dumuzi, and I made further assumptions about rescuing him from the underworld.

My sister Ereshkigal ruled the underworld and I’d thought it would be as simple as asking her to give Dumuzi back to me. I went down to see her, full of pride and dressed in all my regalia, because I didn’t just want to show Dumuzi who was in control, I wanted to show Ereshkigal too. 

When I got to the underworld, all the gates were locked to me, and all my sister’s guards had been given strict instructions to not let me pass. I argued with the gatekeeper, I demanded that he show me respect, all to no avail. Once I fell quiet, having argued myself to exhaustion, the gatekeeper explained that he would let me pass, but only if I gave him my crown. This only made me argue more, but eventually I could see no other way, it was only my crown, I could survive without it. Besides, I would still be a hero in Dumuzi’s eyes, once he saw me and knew I was there for him. 

It didn’t take long for me to reach the second gate, and I assumed it would have been opened to me when the first one was, my sin again, assuming. The gatekeeper explained to me that I could only pass in exchange for my necklace, and reluctantly I agreed. I convinced myself that Dumuzi was waiting for me, I convinced myself I was still the hero. 

At the third gate I was asked to remove my lapis lazuli beads, the fourth, my breastplate, the fifth my gold-arm band, the sixth, my measuring rod and line and at the seventh my royal robe. Once I had nothing, once I was naked and powerless, I was led to my sister’s chamber. I was too low to ask for explanation from her, I was too low to ask for anything at all. With one look from her I fell dead at her feet. 

What happened next was out of my control, so I suppose of no importance. I was dead, for three days, hung from a meat-hook, and brought back to life through a complicated series of events that had nothing to do with me. I was led out the way I came, picking up my discarded belongings as I did, they didn’t seem as important to me as they once did. My sister had taught me a lesson, a lesson that I had needed to learn, but I felt like a failure. Dumuzi was still trapped, and instead of turning around and fighting for him, I was taking my chance to retreat to my world. 

When I arrived home, I was met with song and laughter, again, I had assumed my house would be in mourning, I still hadn’t learnt that lesson yet. Dumuzi, having arranged his own release, was sitting on my throne. He’d made everything I owned his, he’d made himself king of my lands and was enjoying all the riches that title brought him. 

The second time I sent him to hell, I felt no guilt, no matter what the stories say, it was his time to die, as all kings eventually must. 

Me: But didn’t you return to the underworld, every six months, repeating the attempt to rescue him?

Inanna: Maybe. Or maybe I returned every six months to visit my sister. Men come and go, but sisterhood is a bond that should never have been broken.

Me: That sounds so new-age cliché. 

Inanna: That doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

Me: I’m pretty sure it does.