Honest about Goddess

I need to re-train my brain. You do too, probably.

Today I was painting a room. It was the third time this week that I have been contracted to paint a tongue in groove wall. It requires the use of a paint brush. It's not an easy roller job. It takes time and diligence.

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When I had completed half the room in good time, I thought to myself: I am a painting Goddess! I looked at myself. I was standing on a ladder with clunky boots, an oversized t-shirt over a nasty old sweatshirt and I had paint on my hands and face.

I realized then, that the image 'goddess' evokes for me is a perky breasted woman, arched back, standing tall and fierce with a small waist and thick thighs. She has her hands on her hips in defiance (probably against a man).

The problem is that her aesthetic is more dominate than her power, her character or her beliefs. She is usually fighting men...or worse : seducing them. 

In media, the goddess plays a role as man-eater

And what do we think of when we think of a God? What do you think of? 

 

 

Powerful? That's the word I think of.  Why do I think of a word for God but an image for Goddess?

Don't be mistaken: When I call my friend a goddess, it is for her abilities, her accomplishments or her persistence leading to the goals she set for herself. Disappointing myself, I realized today that even though my heart is in the right place, I still imagine a strange Sailor-Moon type scene of that woman when she embodies Goddess: ribbons of light surround her body and she's glowing. Her head is tilted back, her arms open as if she's awaiting embrace. She spins. She is on tippy-toes.

What I've written above is embarrassing for me to admit, but I'm glad I am; This is an honest blog, after all. 

A Goddess is not a precious, fragile thing; She is a fierce woman of her own volition and will conquer her aspirations - with or without grace.  

I need to re-train my brain to think of: Woman As Goddess: Powerful and Able.

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Two Sheds, Bread and Chocolate Truffle Pie

I painted two small sheds yesterday. I had been hired to do this project a month back but I am a novice and went too slow. The weather changed before I could finish painting all the grooves. Yesterday was warm, possibly 15 degrees Celsius, and I finished painting after 4 hours. 

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It was windy when I walked home. It seems my days usually end around 3pm; That's when the sun starts going down. That's when the weather changes. I realized I hadn't been thinking about anything all day. I was focused on painting and my mind was blank. It felt like my brain was calm water lapping inside my head. 

I slept at 9 and woke at midnight to start the arduous but incredibly pleasurable task of making a mass batch of bread. It doesn't take too much effort, but it does take time and attention. I talk to the dough. It helps. I'm sure of it. 

By 7 in the morning, the bread was out and cooling and I crept back upstairs to bed for a few hours.

Just after 11, I flew out the door, late for work, holding the earrings I intended on wearing. As I descended the stairs, I prodded my ear lobe with the hook and hit something. I was already wearing earrings.  

This evening, I made a chocolate pie from scratch and with no recipe. I am mourning the closure of Bar Italia. It was a restaurant - until a few months ago - on College Street in Toronto. My parents took us there before they divorced. It was simply where our family went if we were going out for supper.  Everyone always got the same thing except Mom, who always had a hard time deciding.  

There was a chocolate truffle cake on the menu. It could hardly be called a cake. I don't think it was baked and I don't think it had flour or leavening agents. It was always the same: perfect and insanely rich. The slice was only an inch thick and maybe 5 inches long. It sat on a plate alone or there may have been a raspberry coulis underneath. Our family shared that one dessert every time. 

I went on my first date there, with a guy who would eventually propose to me when I was 16. We both used fake i.d. I don't remember what I ate, but I know where we sat and the view I had of that room. That room is etched in my memory forever. 

Later, I got a job as a cook there. It was my third job ever. I never saw anyone make the chocolate truffle cake. Someone did it upstairs but I never saw who or when they made it. 

Tonight, I channelled Bar Italia and what I have learned about cooking since and I prepared two mini chocolate truffle pies. They are in a pie shells only because I had left over pie pastry. 

I cannot eat this pie, but I will savour the memories it holds. Tomorrow, I will give it to my mom and her partner, my stepdad, Trevor.