| Friday the 13th I don't
have a poem for you—
I have an announcement: Friday
the thirteenth is a sacred
not a dangerous day. The
rumor of this day's curse reverses
once again what's sacred and profane,
one more way that women in this wayward age
are fucked. And it's not just
women out of luck:
also the body you live in, the soil
which succors you,
the water which washes
you, the earth cradling your feet. Regarding
Friday the thirteenth, I'm here to say:
there's nothing to fear, do not be
afraid.
Do not capitulate to complicity in the
conspiracy of fear fomented
by some
shriveled 16th century Christian monks who
devised the idea to name this day
bad luck, campaigning to tame the lusty
country folk and terminate their traditions
honoring the land. ("Pagans"
the Christians
called them, meaning "peasants," and "civilians"—
not soldiers in the wars of Christ.) Friday is and
was Freya's day, the sabbath day,
the day to honor Freya, Earth's daughter,
Venus of the north: she who feeds us from
the bounty of Her fertile fields,
who
warms the hearth, heats our passion,
heartens our home; who blesses
our newborn,
makes our babies hale, guides our spinning hand,
heals us
with Her seeds and herbs. Thirteen is Freya's sacred
number—
the number of mooncycles to the year,
the count of times
each year a woman bleeds. Thirteen cannot be conquered,
divided,
nor compromised. It's wild, eccentric,
erratic, ecstatic, beyond
the tyrant's
reach, past captivity, a jumping off
place, the threshold
from which we tip
over into other worlds. Thirteen is the
triple goddess—maiden,
mother, crone—
standing upon the pinnacle of ten: the
power of transformation. On
Friday the 13th I'm here to say:
Do not be afraid.
Do not give way
to fearing, or degrading— woman,
moon, body, birth, bleeding, earth. When you cast
us into darkness,
you empower us to haunt you. |
