Medicine for Woman, Medicine for Man


War.  What is good for?  Absolutely nothing.  Nothing, except fueling the machine, the RAGE machine, the destruction machine­- and I’m not talking about the beautiful dark void of the necessary type of destruction, the goddess type of destruction.  The description I am searching for is far worse than destruction or death.  It’s an annihilation, a dismemberment of human kind’s inherent goodness, of our peace cultures, of our soft and sweet imaginative boys.  Today, I watched a movie and it moved me to sobs, to tears as an empath to witness the storyline, the plot that had no happy ending.  I cried so hard that my sweet familiar came and cuddled me and licked my face until I had to convince him that I was ok and walk away from the screen.  It ended in sorrows with a bagpiper playing a weeping tune perched above the holy hills of Scotland.  It was a story that we all know well, but have scarcely talked about.  It was the story of what happens when we send our men off in the name of bravery, protection and glory, and then the completely changed men that we get back.  It’s an alchemy of the darkest sort.  It was a story about the condition that we have acknowledged exists, but one that we don’t expose the root of.  It’s the PTSD, it’s the story of my grandfather, of the man I knew, the changed man, the hard man, the disassociated, emotionless man.  I never knew him as the sweet, youthful imaginative child that he once was, but I intuitively know that he was once just like my own son, a peaceful, spatial in his play, a son without an ounce of cruelty in him.  It’s the rocking chair that my great grandmother heard blowing in the wind one night only to realize it was her son, returned unceremoniously from a war that he never truly returned from.  It’s the anguish of my mother-line and the perpetration of cruelty and cold harshness passed onto them by the changed man.  Today, I cry because it is enough.  This patriarchal war machine, this dark alchemy, this black snake of control must be stopped.  It’s my greatest, deepest fear to have my sweet son suffer the same fate as that of my ancestors.  Now is the time, ours is the power to change.  We must heal and hiss out our motherly cries that we will not stand for it anymore.  How do we heal it without another fight?  Are we to win with divine feminine Ghandi-like passivity or are we to challenge the powers that be with force and might?  I do not know.  What I do know is that magic is my power, and that is how I will begin my grassroots fight.  I will cook up in my cauldron all of the medicine that I can muster.  Medicine for the mother-line, medicine for the father-line and cast to protect my babes.  To protect their innocence and their sweet nature.  Who is with me? 

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