My 840,000 Euro Revelation

I had a million dollar revelation delivered with this recent virgo new moon.  Unfortunately, one million dollars only translates to 840,000 euros.  But that’s still a hefty chunk.  And actually, here in this depressed economy where you can rent a house for 300 a month or buy a liter of the world’s finest olive oil for twelve euros, eight hundred and forty thou can go damn far.  

Athena!  Stay the course babe… Your intention in diving right into the meat and blood of your revelation was to hook people straight away, suck them into the enticing land of expensive “ah-ha”s…  


Yeah, but then I needed to tickle myself because translating dollars to euros is the story of my damn life and that is funny to me.  

I am dazzled by the syphonic, harmonic nature of circumstances and personalities and timing.  So many factors contributed to my revelation- conversations with friends, sessions with Carolyn- a gifted energy healer, coaching with “Maha” David Schlussel, reading Pussy, by Mama Gena, Giordano’s behavior, my own extended stay in Dark Night…

Goddess, it has been a dark night.  Suicidal thoughts, sticky self-hatred, extreme frustration, desperation and rage… really rough inner terrain to navigate.  But I think the grace of diving all the way to the fucking BOTTOM is that there is something to push off of when it’s time to resurface.  

Giordano disappeared for a couple of days.  Not completely.  But staying out after a long day of work and coming home after me and the kids were already asleep (Though it should be known that as the light wanes, I have been retiring before nine, so I can wake at four and write my heart out because if I DON’T, I am a miserable person and my kids shamelessly take all.) For some reason, Giordano opted to sleep on the couch.  Maybe because he drank beer and he didn’t want to be subject to my debilitating disapproval?  Yeah, smelling his boozy breath triggers the shit out of me.  It’s not like he’s a damn “alcoholist” (as he calls it!) or anything.  But my fantasy dream husband does not turn to alcohol when life gets unruly and uncomfortable.  No, my Fantasy Man kicks it with Shiva.  Life’s jarring “cinematic thrills” draw him deeper into the heart of his inner stillness.  He takes a long, cold shower and retreats to his cave to regain clarity and alignment.  Sigh.  I know that my standards are steep.  Cut the Brotha a break, right?  

So he slept on the couch for two nights and I barely saw him and my deep carved abandonment wound flared up like a hemorrhoid.  When this happens I feel to have carte blanche to be cruel.  Maha David suggested making KINDNESS my spiritual practice.  I know that sounds like an obvious choice… but when you’re left to care for the kids mostly completely alone day in and day out, kindness often seems like a dim option that it’s damn easy to miss.  

Another relevant piece of this pie otherwise known as my current Existence is that I have been in a deep inquiry of victim consciousness and how it plays out in my psyche and life.  Reread the last paragraph and you will see that it actually reeks of victim.  But this way of perceiving has been so native to me, that I haven’t even been able to identify it until recently.  (Side note- I’m hypothesizing that this is one factor in why my entries in Athena Graceland have tapered off…. I have grown tired of enslaving my fingers to the voice of the poor, whiny victim who insists on using me for her own self-indulgent agendas.  I want so much more for my writings and my LIFE.)

I’ve been DEVOURING Pussy.  Haha, the BOOK, silly.  So here I am, heavy with pain and disdain for my husband’s disappearance, wondering how in the fuck to find my light and power…. And I come to the chapter on “Rupture”.  Basically, Mama Gena defines Rupture as those life experiences that “break us open”.  She says that this is essential for a woman who is committed to living from her Desire, because it strips her of fantasies, pretense, smallness.  And if she’s willing to give herself over to the Rupture and allow her body to lead the way through the underworld of grieving, it will take her clear to the bottom.  The Original Wound.  The one that keeps playing her life like a skipping record.  Grief will clean her out, deliver her from victim to AUTHOR.  Initiate her from the little girl who runs into the arms of another in moments of coming undone, to the woman who fully surrenders to the wisdom of her own body and knows that she need not seek outside of herself.

Talk about Divine Timing.  My heart throbbed, literally feeling broken in two.  And as if amidst a vision quest in the safety and comfort of my very own pink bedroom, I saw the responsibility I have given to every single one of my partners… to hold and care for this broken-assed heart.  The heart of the tiny girl whose daddy left when she was two; whose mama left her alone at home sometimes when she had to work and couldn’t find a babysitter.  This desperate little person, wielding her weighty goddess power in the name of being delivered from the bleeding epicenter from her very own devastating break from Source.  Yes, I am way more powerful than I give myself credit for, and I have been misusing said power in the way of punishment… to manipulate my men into saving me from myself.  And I have attracted a blazing squad of nearly competent saviors!

The cost of this?  My sovereignty.  My Authorship.  My self-respect.  

I have hated myself for this repetitive choice.  And projected that hatred onto my men.  My relationships become suffocating and I panic and get the fuck OUT… imagining that the liberation and satisfaction and embodied spiritual immensity is waiting for me in the holy land of single-ness.  But I haven’t found it there.  And if I ran toward it now, I’d do so as a single mother of two (which is hardly “Single”… it’s more like “Triple”).  Being a single mother to Serena was not such a bad scene.  We were a team… but Forest???  He has a different agenda- running his male energy like Niagra Falls.  (Though he always stops to smell the flowers…)  

From the mountain top, the Path looks so obvious and clear- I wrap my broken-hearted little girl up in my arms and hold her while she sobbs and wails, I’m unconditionally kind to Giordano, and I reclaim the driver’s seat of my Life, become a rich and famous author and wash my soiled hands of this whole nasty victim thing.  BAM.  

But unfortunately life doesn’t happen from the top of the mountain.  It’s an off road trek through vines and brambles and crumbling earth.  And let’s not forget to mention the slobbering, woman eating beasts lurking in the bushes.  I feel so justified being mean to Giordano!  He’s so imperfect and irritating!  And it takes so much effort to create new habits and ways of being.  To be the capable woman who asks for what she wants and then allows herself to HAVE it.  To be the woman who is the Source of her own fulfillment.  To be the woman who has the courage to embody the depths of her darkness AND live with her Light ON.  

It probably won’t be the all or nothing construct that I love to fabricate and use to sabotage my step by step trek to greater expanses of success, fulfillment, happiness and turn-on… But… I’ve SEEN what was previously hidden from my view.  My map has become more refined and comprehensive.  As much as I thirst to pull a Babe Ruth and step up to the plate, point out beyond center field and smash the shit out of the fucking galaxy… I recognize that consistent baby steps are enough to take me where I want to go.  More hitting pillows and howling at the moon with my Sisters and ASKING FOR WHAT I FUCKING WANT and less punishing and criticizing my well-meaning and golden-hearted tho fallible husband.  

I’ve been doin this life for forty years now… and I finally found a way that looks enticing, worthwhile and fabulous.  Watch me crush it.

With the most immense and delicious Love,

Athena Grace

PS- What I am discovering inside is Deliverance from the spell of slumber that all women have given ourselves to (Yes, GIVEN.  We are not victims, nor have we ever been.  We are too powerful for that.).  We are waking up together to our power, love and creative capacity.  In doing so, we naturally restore the balance and wellbeing of Mother Earth and Humanity.  This is my part.  May it inspire you and yours.  

A River, a Boulder and Sex.

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“Art is why I get up in the morning, but my definition ends there….”

 

Honestly, I think I’ve begun an Athena Graceland blog with that quote by Ani Difranco before… but it is endlessly relevant.  

 

There are mornings, like this morning… when Goddess straddles the dripping, luminous full moon and gallops into the secret folds of my dreams.  She rouses me too early and sweetly tugs at the enchanted threads of chaos and curiosity that weave the tapestry of my consciousness…. Images, questions, longing… all screaming up from inside me to be metabolized through the miraculous beauty of my Inner Voice.

 

My animal body feels heavy, begging for extended stillness and intimacy with soft, cotton sheets.  But the ferocity of my drive to create presses heavy from Inside. Mizz Difranco’s words rise like steam from the coffee that is about to be brewed and like fire, I leap from bed, eager to at once wrap and unwrap myself in the magical threads of language.

 

Oh poetic, philosophical words…. With samurai precision, I slash my sword and they fall to my feet.  I emerge as the naked and raw center.

 

Previously in Graceland, I was aflame as I awaited Giordano’s arrival.  Now, nearly a full moon later, he sits beside me on this depressingly distasteful and cheap brown couch, reading Slow Sex, a book written by my lifelong Beacon of Sexually Liberated Sanity, Nicole Daedone.  I am crushed by the too-much-ness of what there is to say.

 

It has been two week since he arrived.  We decided to do a weeklong trial to see if we could *joyously* tolerate coexisting in my modest, artistically persuaded little box… Until yesterday, it was way easier than either of us anticipated.  (It took me almost the full two weeks to set my farts free…. But I’m up to about a sixty nine percent liberated rip-rate.)

 

Oh there’s too much to say.  I must call upon the Wilderness of Infinity Within, in order to perform the Impossible feat of threading Infinity through the Eye of the Needle.  

 

Where do I begin?

 

SEX.  Naturally.  My favorite subject.  If you’ve followed me since the infancy of Athena Graceland, you know I used to romp there way more. (That was before I was sent by a snickering God to live amongst the Renunciates.)  But I always felt terrified because my Mom was my number one fan…. And inspired, liberated sexuality was not an area of overlap for us. I felt the need to hide my libidinous priestess side from her.  Said priestess was actually quite relieved as Dear Sumitra lay dying… because She imagined that She’d finally be free…. On our last day together, I told my Ma, “Now I can write anything I want!” She flashed a smile of compassionate recognition.  

 

For the first year without her, I wondered when I’d get to it…. “It” being revealing the repressed backlog of wet, racy, outrageous expression within me.  But I guess being an under-fucked single mom was not exactly fertile ground for such writing.

 

Hallelujah the dawn doth cometh!  This morning I am delighted to announce that I no longer classify as underfucked.  Phew. I found my way to the scantily clad, orgiastic desert oasis. Everywhere I turn, water is singing, dripping, gushing, quenching.  

 

I pity the fool who says sex is not spiritual.  I feel a bazillion percent more alive, joyful, energized.  I feel like I finally have the inner resource to Rule The World.  

 

I never believed in “penis envy”…. But when I see Giordano’s perfectly huge, artistically dangerous, hard cock in the morning…. I think that Freudian construct might be laced into the cocktail of feelings that swirl inside me.

 

I’ve been flying high on oxytocin for the past two weeks.  It’s like being drunk on sunlight. I dare you to argue with the quintessential rightness of such purity.

 

But of course, life is dynamic and fuckin messy.

 

And sharing my tiny house with a man is bound to arouse conflict and rub raw, ancient wounds.  Yesterday we got in our first real…. Dare I call it a “fight”? I would call it me asking to Talk… and sharing all the withholds that were eating away at me.  Him feeling attacked and bristling in defense. Both of us flooding with fight or flight chemicals and becoming crippled five year olds. How’s THAT for sexy?!!

 

The moon is nearly full.  We are both very sensitive.  Energy needed to burst and gush.  We never really came to articulated resolution.  We walked through the woods, me tense and silent, him spitting inflamed, linguistic daggers wrapped in his profoundly charming italian accent.  Then we took some space…. And naturally tapped our respective wells of compassion, patience and love.

 

I just wish I hadn’t told him I was ALL IN so quickly.  Initially, we agreed to let it ride for an entire moon cycle before we came to any conclusions.  But the damn oxytocin got me all gushy and I professed that I didn’t need to wait. I flung myself into the treacherous deep end, with beaming abandon.

 

Hello, my name is Athena and I am emotionally impulsive.  

 

Seriously.  It’s a weakness in me that I am working on.

 

I don’t know if I’m scared of intimacy… or not fashioned for a conventional, nuclear paradigm relationship… or if Giordano simply isn’t the One for me….  But….. ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!

 

I started missing Ed.  Ed has a way stronger masculine essence.  Giordano was named after the River Jordan.  And he truly IS water. Ed was named after a massive granite boulder.  Haha I’m sooo funny! But I ask myself if I can fully give myself to a man who is so flowing.  This makes me more masculine. But….

 

Giordano is a beautiful being who loves and supports me.  He is honest and caring, creative and adventurous. Plus, his italian accent and adorably wonky sentence structuring is an endless source of tickle for me.  And who says it must be a stifling case of “either or”?

 

A while back, Ed sneered at me, in a moment of pain, and said, “You think you can have it ALL, but you CAN’T.”  His words knocked me bass-ackwards.

 

The fuck I can’t.  I’m ATHENA GRACE, high and holy Priestess of Heaven.  Recently, Ed stopped talking to me for what seemed like a year.  It was actually about three days. But now he’s back. And I am quenched by his steady, masculine love.  

 

Fuck the stiff, moldy paradigm that says I must choose.  But through the unintelligible grace of endarkenment, it still lives inside me.  When I fall asleep at the wheel for even a second, I melt into that ancestrally embedded, default, operational groove.  Why can’t I widen myself and imbibe the love and complementary nutrients that both men have to offer to my heart and life?

 

I can.  I give myself Radical Permission to be nourished by a spectral panoply of lovers.  I give myself Radical Permission to be free from the need to define my relationships according to archaic, expired patriarchal constructs.  I give myself Radical Permission to feel and speak my raw, naked truth in The Moment, and set appropriate boundaries accordingly. I give myself Radical Permission to live in the Present, and release the need to define my intimacy with others through elusive future constructs.  

 

Most importantly, I give myself Radical Permission to love and to be loved.  And to BE LOVE.

 

Messy, imperfect, ever-evolving, embodied love.