E is for Evolution – Pagan Blog Project 2012

Hey folks!
 
I’ve been having a Fashion Moment that’s been going on for the past week and a half. I put it down to a combination of:
 
1) It’s “Fall” (as far as retail and fashion magazines are concerned, anyway) and, thus, Fashion is totally on the radar everywhere I go.
 
2) My grandmother – who was quite the fashion plate – died on July 25th. And I inherited a bunch of her jewelry, among other things.
 
3) I’ve been (yet again, and largely thanks to Miss Sugar), been trying to figure out what my “style” is when it comes to clothing. I know what my “uniform” is but, to use Miss Sugar’s term, I don’t know what my “hook” is. I’m enough of a femme that I know how you present to the world has a MASSIVE effect on how the world treats you[1], so I feel like I need to figure that one out in order to be able to present to The World At Large as the wild-and-elegant[2], magically-fabulous woman that I am.
 
4) My grandfather (other side of the family) died very, very early this morning and, thus, I decided that I needed to find a black blouse[3] to wear to his funeral (unlike my grandmother – who was burried directly in the ground at a natural cemetery – my grandfather is having a church-service type funeral, which requires something a little bit dressier than a tank top under a nice cardigan).
 
5) I did a photoshoot last night and, upon looking at some of the shots (just on the digital screen, I haven’t got a clue what they’ll look like at full size) I realized something:
 
I don’t look like a child anymore.
 
I realize that, at 32, this is kind of a no-brainer. I don’t look like a “young woman” anymore. I have a face that goes with my body.
 
And so I bring you E is for Evolution
 
I don’t know if this realization/discovery/change means I’m shifting into “Mother” and out of “Maiden” or what.
 
I do think that I don’t want to be a Mother yet.
I spent a good chunk of my 20s being “mommy” to someone who only wanted me to kiss booboos and clean up messes, but wouldn’t recognize my own authority. So the idea of entering the “Mother” stage – even as a metaphor for calling your shots and creating your masterworks – kind of makes me cringe and wrinkle my nose.
 
So. I’m looking for something different.
 
Having read A Women’s Wheel Of Life when I was in my late teens, I’m inclined to take my cues from the “Queen” section (West/Autumn) of its cover image:
 

Lover, Amazon, Priestess… Now those are Titles I can Get Behind!


 
I am a Lover. I am an Amazon. I am calling the shots in my home. I am working to bring my magic, my faith, my careers, my long-term romantic (and – important to note – power-exchange) relationship, and my creativity into joyful, powerful, successful accord…
 
I want to be this chicky:
 

 
 
… Even more than I want to be this chicky:
 

 
 
But, either way, I’m aiming for “Queen” – Empress of All She Surveys – not “Mother”. I’m aiming for powerful, not nurturing, because – like it or not – “nuruturing” is unpleasantly linked with “sacrificing your needs in the name of other people’s wants” and with “giving up your dreams, plans, and goals so that someone else can have what they want instead”.

Look. I can get all Spider Man on you and point out that “with great power comes great responsibility”… because it’s true. When you rule, you have to take care of things, take care of the people in your charge, or else you’re a crappy ruler.
But a ruler who looks out for her people is still In Charge.

And that’s where I want to be.

So let this next phase of my evolution be a Queendom, not a Motherhood. Let me show it on my skin and in everything I do.

TTFN,
Meliad the Birch Maiden.

[1] I’m a feminine chick, so sometimes I get patronized. But (a) I’m a white, feminine chick, so I get cut a lot of slack that, say, a brown feminine chick wouldn’t get; also (b) I’m a confident-as-fuck feminine chick, which means a lot of the guys (it’s pretty much always guys) who would otherwise patronize me or creep on me… tend to run in the other direction. So there. πŸ˜€
 
[2] Rubies and pearls, girls, the two sides of Femme. πŸ˜‰ (I read that in, iirc… Femme: Feminists, Lesbians and Bad Girls… years ago).
 
[3] Not just for the funeral, but in general. I’m not fond of blouses… they tend not to fit my hourglass figure very well and, in my price-range, tend to be of the poly-cotton-spandex variety that rely on stretchiness to cover up their mediocre shaping. At the same time, “blouses” are more structured and, thus, both more formal and more grown-up. And I’m tired of being, effectively, in t-shirts all the time.

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