mistaken identities: small meditations on love

the tender colour of snow illuminated by the rising sun---i wish love to be so gentle, so gracious.

how could we not improve ourselves? this world so generous in beauty, we so delicate, and yet...

the inevitability of betrayal: the only question being, of ourselves or the other?

she sinks to sleep as into a drug, the only place of safety. here alone is she free to be herself. he watches, left behind, frustrated possession knotting his veins.

our wants get the better of us. hungry doves with sharpened beaks.

i desired nothing more grand than to care for those i love. that was my sole or greatest talent, and i gave everything to do it well. it was the one thing not wanted.

pack my heart away in a box cushioned with ashes, send it book rate someplace i shall never see it again.

i, coiled like a vixen in a mossy den. you, coiled like a snake hidden in dead leaves.

love is not really arrow-like. more like a blunderbuss: with much care you prepare the little missiles, with their nest of powder and wadding, strike a spark, and it knocks you down. you have a bruised shoulder and probably missed anyway, were the target as big as a barn. 

when your baby is in your arms, and your realise never have you loved like this, this small being you will defend to the last drop of blood, she is everything. nothing and no one can ever be this dear. this will never change, even when you are forced to face the inability to defend her against something. the rage and grief, like the love, are eternal.

at some point, death becomes a lover, too, if we are not distracted. 

i think we tear up at weddings because we want so terribly for it to go well for them. and know how improbable, how they will break against the rocks of each other and of life.

this unbecoming passion that still, despite it all, occasionally reminds me that i am alive...what am i meant to do with it?

pouring tea, setting out broken biscuits that are all you have, making space for tears or laughter---tangible love offered without expectation or pretense or preparation. granny love, friend love. 

the cat curled in the lap, the dog resting by your side, reminders of what faithful means. the only really unconditional love, perhaps.

i love to see really old people holding hands, because it's like seeing a unicorn. it hurts and it is wondrous. such devotion---not for me, maybe, but it exists, and i marvel.

tell me what and who you love and i will tell you who and what you are. i am old enough to do that now, and people should listen when old women speak of love and other broken things.

i remember a small girl, spinning and spinning in the yard, in love with trees and the moon and life itself. surely she is still in there, somewhere? there are echoes, faint as the sound of butterfly wings, at odd moments. what did she know that i have forgotten? 

firebirds

somewhere a desired woman

frees a magic bird 

captured with deceit or cruel cunning

by some prince or wizard or stable hand

in order to capture her

she stepped out of the fairytale into 

something else

the bird soars free into the night sky

the woman walks away

with her burden of freedom

lightly balanced on shoulders

unbowed by complicity

no heavier than a freely given feather

Welcome to the Resilience

There has been some online chatter about what name is preferred for the group of us who do not intend "to go gently into that (bad) night" which looks likely to fall with the incoming regime of Trump 2.0 and his insane, greedy, self-interested, treacherous, and vile handlers. For myself, I am fine with calling it a Resistance; it is exactly what is called for, both practically in legal or governmental arenas, and personally in our own souls and in our communities. But some point out that the first Resistance was not especially successful---a point I would make some exceptions to, but understand overall. Others say it is too grandiose, in comparison with the resistance groups of WWII. One rather hopes that we shall not need to endure or combat what they did, but we are no more special than those people, so who can say what courage and endurance and resourcefulness might not be required of us. The lovers of the "Star Wars" franchise have suggested 'the Rebellion', but not being a "Star Wars" fan myself, I am unenthusiastic about that one, and would note that the 'Rebels' role has been tried on in America before, in the service of a heinous lifestyle. It failed, after massive loss of life, and left a toxic legacy which haunts us to this day, resurrected and embraced by too many ignorant, racist people amongst us, prominently in Trump followers. Likewise, we've already had a 'Revolution', as have others, and they generally involve armed combat and lots of torment and death. Perhaps a better name than 'the Resistance', or any of the alternatives I've heard yet, might be 'the Resilience'. With that, we invoke the power of Life itself, moving through cycles of darkness and light. It is holistic, not polarising; it roots our action in an ecosystem of evolving, cyclical existence which can accommodate diversity, reward tenacity, draw on deep reserves, centre the power of nurturing rather than just destruction, and allow for growth. 

As I mentioned above, we are not special. Americans, some Americans at least, have thought they were, collectively, for a long time. Exceptionalism is not logically sustainable, though; like every other group, we are subject to events, natural forces, our individual and collective waxings and wanings. And I believe that underneath the story of specialness that certain Americans have told themselves lies a deep, subconscious, collective guilt about the actions of the European ancestors toward Indigenous Americans and toward enslaved people. By refusing to learn and teach true history we have hamstrung ourselves. We cannot be whole as a nation until we confront the entirety of our history properly. Fetishising patriotism without acknowledging the (literal) skeletons in the closet is a disservice to ourselves, who are fragmented in the process, and divested of functional and inclusive democracy by bigots and zealots. It is a disservice to those descended from Indigenous or enslaved people, whose pain is thus denied and whose vital, diverse cultural heritages are forgotten and erased, and without whose culture and labour no colonial nor industrial era life would have transpired as it did. It is a disservice to all our ancestors, whose redemption lies with our own movement toward wholeness. It is a disservice to all of our children, who deserve to know the truth and be set free by it. It is a disservice to future generations, who must live in a world made dysfunctional, cruel, and unjust by it. 

It is long past time that Americans tell themselves the true stories that are braided of shadow and sunlight, good and evil, pride and shame. It is time to let the truth that is greater than any individual or group---that we are part of all that is, no better nor worse than any other part---move us back toward balance and forward to a more just and functional future. Before any "more perfect union" can be built, we have to see and acknowledge the bits that are not perfect, and also imagine together what "more perfect" will look like. 

One of the shades of meaning attached to the word resilient is "able to adjust to change", or able to recover after misfortune or pressure. I like the term because it is evocative of nature as a whole. I would suggest that those who suffered most from the shadow side of American history, and continue to be most disadvantaged by its legacies, have the most to teach us about resilience. It is their voices which have so much to offer us as we reintegrate our nation and reimagine its future, and they are the ones most threatened by the incoming threat-promisers: women, queer folk, non-white folk, refugees and immigrants, financially poor folk, non-christian folk, basically anyone who doesn't identify as cis-het-christian-white-male. We will need to be resilient to survive what is coming, even the most ameliorated, restrained version of it. Those of us with experience either personal or generational of enduring difficulty and flowing with change already have skills that can be shared, and deserve the protection of those whose privilege makes them less vulnerable. 

In nature, nothing is special---everything is an integral part of the whole. This literal integrity translates into a functional integrity; in a healthy ecosystem, no one part operates at the expense of others, without balance or accountability. In humans, we have seen far too much of lack of integrity, and the result is writ large in history and in our present careening into a warming planet inhabited by unhappy, unhealthy people (with all other living beings similarly affected). It didn't have to be that way, and it doesn't have to continue on that trajectory. But to pass through the coming storm into a better future, we need to confront the failures of the past and present, reclaiming our integrity and leveraging our resilience. There's a meme of "not fragile like a flower, fragile like a bomb", and I would like to invert it in some ways...A flower is only fragile from some viewpoints that don't see it as part of a whole. A flower endures changing seasons and weather, building root systems out of sight, feeding others with pollen and leaf, beautifying its environment, communicating chemically with other plants and beings, and setting seeds that convey its DNA forward. A bomb is by design a fragile thing that will break other fragile things when it breaks. I'd rather be remembered as a flower, resilient and productive. That seems a fitting emblem for our task, whether we call it Resistance or Resilience or some other thing. 

ashes, ashes...

some of the worst days come when we are nostalgic about something we never really had: true love, certainty, time... our memories hold falsehoods and wishful thinking as much as truth sometimes. we think we recall when love was a dream we both had, and now neither of us does; searching the past to see where things went wrong, what was left undone, or overdone. in reality, who knows what love looks like to someone else? in reality, we can do it all right, and still have it fall apart.

then there is the jolt that comes with an unforeseen loss--when the person who seemed to be dying is alive and just as one is relaxing into that relief, someone else dear dies suddenly. the tragedy we prepared for and steeled ourselves against is not the tragedy that happened. we may find ourselves one day journeying home with a box of ashes in the lap. all at once, the heart is also a box of ashes and we cannot even scatter them, because then we would have nothing.

we put off making appointments with doctors, dreading diagnosis. fears of silent tumours inside, death growing where life once did, or finding there is a fault in the blood, in the eyes, in the heart. there are some things we don't need to know. there is enough illness and death around to go on with for now. our bones ache with the weariness of holding up a dying thing, and what does it matter why?

every one of us is a child in a burning house, so fragile, so beautiful, so alone. i wear my mother's lipsticks, found while clearing out her vanity. i wear the colour of the dead as i go about my days. nothing is as it was, but the dishes still must be washed, the laundry done, the classes taught. i am always astonished how we do this, how we continue to move through life and move life through us, inside our cages of flame.

happy is the bride the sun shines on

"It is not so much light that falls
over the world
extended by your body
its suffocating snow,
as brightness, pouring itself out of you,
as if you were
burning inside.

Under your skin, the moon is alive."

-Pablo Neruda

what is---or, more accurately, what was---a bride? and what is her relationship with deities who bring light?

well, in the beginning, it seems that a bride was a woman who was pregnant for the first time. 

let me repeat that: bride = fertile or nubile young woman, very possibly the first-time pregnant woman.

the period of maidenhood likely would have started with first menstruation. it was the antechamber to bridal status, but not the same as a bride, and certainly not--at least originally--related to virginity. by the way, latin virgo, origin of english virgin, connoted a young/unmarried woman, or a state of being fresh, unused; and related virga, a young shoot. see also latin virid- with meanings of green, blooming, vigorous. this all seems to have to do with readiness for sex, potency, a strong power of liveliness and growth potential, fertility. only much later did virginal acquire a specific sense of sexual chastity, and a feeling that sex for young women outside of marriage was problematic. in some cultures, the younger, prepubescent girls acquired a similar status of reverence and ritual potency which terminated at onset of puberty. but i suspect this to be a somewhat later development, at least in certain forms.

this movement from childhood, in which reproduction was not possible, to young adulthood, in which fertility was possible, seems to have been regarded with great interest, and viewed as requiring ritual demarcation. we can't know all of the ways in which this ritual recognition may have occurred, but it's likely that a girl's dress and/or hairstyle/head-dress was changed to mark her new status. that was certainly the case in folk tradition and history; the bride has been marked by her special dress and/or ornaments for as long as we have words or imagery to convey it. 

these identifying features could include a netted or woven apron, a specially woven/patterned/braided belt, special skirt styles (back apron, back apron + front apron, or full skirt), a new hairstyle (such as long single braid, for daily and elaborate braided styles for special occasions), or ornaments worn on head or temples. many of the symbols and materials used are protective or apotropaic, intended to ward off harm. once metal-working was advanced enough, there is use of reflective metal pieces, that sparkle and deflect light. certain colours such as red or black or green were associated with fertile status. floral wreaths or crowns marked the bride, indicative of fertility ('blooming'), just as pregnant women are often described as blooming up to the present day. brides indeed are also described commonly as blooming, blushing (flushed with life and passion as much as any shyness), and radiant. they are filled with life energy, with potential creation. they burgeon. these fertile beings were considered magical participants in the life force and full of a kind of fortunate power which could be beneficial to their families and communities, but also potentially dangerous to themselves and by extension to others, if anything went wrong.

once a maiden, she was now 'marriageable' or eligible as sexual partner. this does not necessarily mean, in every case or time, that pre-pubescent children were never sexually active. what was being recognised was the potential for pregnancy, originally, but we have no way of knowing (and much cultural history to the contrary) whether our remote ancestors felt pre-pubescent girls or boys were not suitable sexual partners for adults or for each other. probably not; nature was, well, natural, and readily observable in humans and other animals. there would have been little privacy, and until fairly recently in human history, children were seen as small, apprentice adults, expected to mimic adult activities. however, people were keenly observant, and capable of noting higher infant and maternal mortality in the very young, as well as less successful breastfeeding in that demographic due to fewer menstrual cycles experienced. some cultures evolved customs restricting sexual activity or marriage with very young girls, perhaps for this reason as much as any queasiness about sexual activity with youths. a separate but interesting consideration is that it is possible that puberty and menarche occurred somewhat later than is our current reality, due to a variety of factors including physical effects of artificial light and high-calorie diets and xeno-oestrogenic substances in the modern environment, as well as cultural changes. at any rate, whenever menarche appeared, it seems to have been noted with avidity. the girl having crossed into maidenhood was a figure of interest to her whole community, in a special phase of life where her potential as a life-bearer came to the fore.

traditionally, virginity was associated with potential fertility--unused yet, and potent. but a bride was often a pregnant woman, not a woman who had not had sex yet. pregnancy was considered the completion of womanhood. to be barren was considered unlucky, at least amongst neolithic and later farming or pastoral folk, and a woman who was 'married'/mated for some time without successful pregnancies or a single woman past her 20s or so was often obliged to indicate her infertile (non-bridal) status by altering an element of her dress. also well evidenced are beliefs that women who died without bearing children became liminal, equivocal figures like the rusalki of slavic myth, whose unused fertility could be both dangerous or leveraged for the community's good. folk traditions document acceptance of young couples having sex, in 'courting rooms' that were part of family homes or in outbuildings and natural environments, and choosing to be married/live together once pregnancy was evident, without any stigma, until christianity became well-ensconced. indeed it was considered the normal and desirable course of things.

bridal status often endured until first pregnancy was completed, or until the successful delivery of a living child. her bridal attire would be retained at least for festivals and often in daily life until then, and the words referring to her were those used for a bride, not terms for a mother, wife, or other adult woman.

hair, associated with life force, was often subject to taboos; loose (unbraided or uncovered) hair was associated either with childhood or 'maiden' status. in some cultures, a single braid was equated with maidenhood (potential but unused fertility; later, single versus married status), and two braids (divided to indicate either pregnancy, potential pregnancy, or sexual initiation, and later, married status) meant an adult or married woman. sometimes the bride's head-dress and hairstyle were ritually changed at the end of marriage ceremonies to mark this transition. hair might also be required to be covered in an adult woman (including older girls, presumably those who had experienced menarche) or in married women. this would originally have been done to signal their potentially fertile status and protect it from evil spirits who were thought to be drawn to the power of a fertile woman or assumed to be attracted to blood. the link between appearance of body hair in young people and onset of puberty was made early. in boys, seminal emissions would follow. in girls, monthly bleeding followed. both demarcated the person's passage from childhood to adulthood, and were considered numinous and in need of ritual signalling. in some cases, boys would then begin hunting with men or go to live apart from the women for a time of instruction by men. 

on the subject of blood, taboo could affect men and women. hunters were subject to blood taboos, but in their case the blood came from death. "blooding" of a young man or boy who has made his first kill in a hunt is a custom that still continues. taboos and customs aimed at distributing or offsetting 'guilt' from, as much as celebrating, a successful hunt are widespread. there are also many examples of blood taboo rituals aimed at containing any evil spirits associated with a kill; hunters (or men, generally) may have a separate entrance to a home, or game may be cooked separately from other food even including, in some cases, domesticated animal meats. in nubile women, blood came from menstruation and parturition. either way, blood and spirits were associated and surrounded with taboos.)

differences in lifestyles and ecological carrying capacity likely influenced how people viewed pregnancy and fertility. those living on the edge of sustainability may have found reproduction/fertility a threat to the individual and group survival, and so did not develop positive recognition of fertility to the same degree as other (in some cases, later) cultures. but fertility was universally acknowledged as an important principle, as hunter-gatherers recognised the fertility of all life/the land and its creatures as necessary for their sustenance. human fertility was potentially dangerous, both in terms of individual risk of death in childbirth, and in terms of its impact on resources for the group. whether or not they understood the mechanics of conception and its link to sexual activity---and there is good reason to think that many did, even in remotest times--they definitely felt the idea of potential fertility was important and fraught with peril from both the natural and the spiritual realms. from this ancient concern, it is likely the idea of containing, restricting, guarding, channelling fertility originated. the taboos and restrictions placed on menstruating women or the later (often but not always post-patriarchy) emphasis on chastity and marital fidelity of women were in their origin protective of individuals and of the group. in later cultural and religious manifestations, a negative slant would accrue, with terms like 'sin' and 'impurity'; but these later developments are a significant departure from the probable origin in recognition of power plus vulnerability, and a desire to protect it. 

being a bride means engaging in the ongoing process of universal life forces, of which humans are a part. a bride, in the origin of the term or concept, means a woman who is pregnant or capable of becoming pregnant, with all of the risks and/or rewards that may entail for an individual. it was seen as a numinous, deeply necessary, and in many cases desirable state of being. to refuse it was in some cases or cultures considered impious, bringing ill luck and want on the person and all connected with her. this concept coexisted with other cultural perspectives in which unchecked reproduction was seen as a threat, and in which contraception, abortion, and even infanticide were normative and desirable at times. both perspectives existed in human cultures prior to patriarchy and 'civilisation', and it is somewhat unfortunate that we must look at customs and beliefs about women and fertility through the superimposition of patriarchal controls and priorities, as that considerably muddied the waters. watching scholars attempt to interpret human customs in this area shows how muddy; we see people overstating 'goddess culture' and interpolating modern neo-pagan perspectives into ancient or folk culture evidence, as well as the opposite impulse, insisting that any mother goddesses or matrifocal cultures are bogus relics of jung's and bachofen's (or 19th C romanticised folk research) influence. we see it in scholarly or popular inability to comprehend the simultaneous existence and value of life-supporting and life-taking aspects in a single deity or group of related deities, or in describing every deity associated with fertility or birth-giving or maternity as a sideline area of a group's religious life, unrelated to broader aspects of protection, fortune, and livelihood. whatever a culture's perspective on human fertility, whether seen as threat or benefice or both, the concern with its control, protection, or promotion was of paramount importance to ritual activity, and a central concern to people throughout the ages.

so a bride is a human woman in the service of the life force, willy-nilly. and she is considered to be blooming, radiant. interestingly, there are deities who share these attributes, and sometimes even the name of bride or a related term for brightness, radiance, light. they are most represented, as one might expect, in northern regions where winters are cold and dark and difficult historically, but surely older and other versions exist far back into human history and all around the world. as i am writing in mid january in the northern hemisphere, i am focussing on the northern figures. they are light-bringers, life-bringers, protectors/promoters of life and warmth and increase. and frequently they have a foil who is associated with cold, darkness, and death...they are propitiated so that they may show their kinder side and bless people, rather than remaining disposed to punish, kill, or cause decrease of fortune. often the 'dark' side goddess is referred to as the hidden, meaning she is hiding the light or the light is hidden within her. bride, bridhe/brede, bridget/brigid, brita, berchta, bertha, lucia, lucy, perchta, holda, hella, holle, are some of her names. the meanings of the names reinforce the ideas above: the first seven literally mean light or bright. perchta means hidden. i suspect that perchta as well as the last three mean held/contained, or concealed/covering (as seeds or the dead are held in or covered by earth, and as a foetus is concealed in the womb). when paired, the one goddess is usually all things warm, light, beautiful, and youthful (basically, fertility incarnate), whilst her winter-time partner is everything cold, dark, frightening, and old/infertile. the bride and the cailleach (old woman)...two faces of the same being. 

but lest we think, with our modern tendency of over-simplification, that the elder face of the goddess had no point but to be the foil of the bridal one, it should be observed that the old woman form was often assumed to have charge of the dead, both literally in the sense of being the earth holding the buried dead, and in the sense of caring for spirits/souls and preparing them for reincarnation in some cases. often the elder goddess explicitly cared for the souls of dead infants and children. sometimes, small children are shown accompanying the light goddesses as well, like the 'star boys' or 'tomtenissar' and 'lusse brides' who follow lucia, or the 'straw boys' (guisers) with the little girls carrying the image of bride/st. bridget before the goddess returns at imbolc/candlemas. 

imbolc itself is an interesting holiday, combining facets of the return of the light and fertility to land and creatures with other seasonal winter solstice-to-spring observances like well/water visits, weather forecasting, divination, and feasting. this festival is well-attested in the irish and scots contexts, but shares features with other observances from winter solstice to candlemas in the UK and north, eastern, and central europe. (and even further afield, into asia minor and india...) the irish name is given variously as imbolc or imbolg or oimelc; the first two meaning in gaelic 'in the belly' or 'burgeoning/budding/swelling', and the latter either "ewe's milk"(contested etymology) or an unknown word oi +"purification". it's also possible that im-bolc/im-bolg might be read as fat belly, 'butter-belly'? (compare to maslenitsa in slavic cultures.) indeed the holiday does coincide with the early lambing season, and pies made of the lambs' docked tails were said to be a traditional feast item at candlemas/imbolc. but i strongly suspect that the words and meanings related to 'burgeoning' are more germane here---as this is a festival for urging the transition forward from winter to spring. people looked for buds on blackthorn and other trees at this time, awaiting this visible signal of spring when often the land was still cold, sere, and even snow-covered, and whether or not lambing had begun. and what more obvious symbol of burgeoning than the goddess bride, radiant and youthful, with swelling belly? purification rituals did occur at this holiday, and may have to do with preparing for birth and preparing for spring, jointly.

the main activity for imbolc was crafting a doll-like figure of the goddess, the brideog ('little bride"), either an abstract image like a 'corn dolly' or a broomstick or churn-dash with a dress and head (sometimes a carved turnip, sometimes drawn on the wood itself, and at times described as ferocious looking), and parading it around the land prior to placing it in a bed of rushes by the hearth. i think in the original custom, the bed of rushes was seen as bride's accouchement place, rather than a bed for sleeping; women in labour rested upon rush beds. a white branch of birch or peeled wood was laid with the brideog, called bride's wand. in some areas of ireland, a 'virgin branch' (a stick or braid of rushes wrapped with white ribbon) was laid upon the graves of recently deceased girls who died before being married...echoing the ancient theme of concern with fertility, potential or realised, and a sense of danger or tragedy attendant on the unrealised fertility of those who died before bearing a child. rush-woven 'bride's eyes' or "bridget's girdles" were made in a sun-wheel with cross-shaped ornaments, big enough for people to crawl through, which was believed to bring healing and luck. the familiar rush 'brigid crosses' with three or four arms were made as well at imbolc, and placed in house and barn for protection. a mother-in-law might make such a rush-woven cross and singe the four arm ends before placing it beneath the mattress of a newlywed couple, for fertility. leftover rushes from the brideog's bed and cross-making might be added to grain at sowing time, or made into rushlights. and on imbolc, it was said that the cailleach gathered her firewood for the rest of winter, so if imbolc was fair, she could gather much wood and winter would last a lot longer. a cold, wet imbolc conversely would keep the cailleach inside, unable to gather much wood, and she would shorten winter accordingly. both the elder and younger forms of the goddess were called upon to keep flocks and folk safe from wolves, and preserve the family from harm and want generally. 

finally there is the odd old verse spoken at imbolc: "today is the day of bride / the queen (or serpent) shall come from the hill (or mound) / i will not touch the queen / nor shall the queen touch me." this is in contrast to the verses spoken on imbolc eve, when house doors were opened and the family cordially invited bridhe in: "the house is ready, the bed is ready, let bride come in and welcome." as ireland has no snakes, the verse is a puzzle...but slavic and turkic cultures did have a snake queen, who dwelt underground or in a mound/hill. slavs might have a house snake, a small, harmless snake fed milk and allowed the run of home or barn, and protected with care as it was thought to bring luck and fertility to the family. and the etruscans and romans had their lares, ancestral spirits worshipped in house shrines often painted with a snake. (it was thought that children dying before their 40th day became a lars for the family...an echo of the ancient concept of dead babies returning to the family line?) possibly the mound referred to a burial mound originally, and contained a memory of snakes coming forth in the warm weather retained from ancient times elsewhere? perhaps the chthonic queen was both frightening and revered, coming from the earthy place where the dead were, and she was not to be touched both out of safety and respect. the bride might be invited in with safety, but the serpent from the land of the dead must be left to do her will apart from human touch. yet perhaps she might bring a soul from the family's line to rejoin life in a new baby, quickened by the bride and her human incarnations.

i am no linguist, and well aware that easy equations of words that sound similar or seem to constellate around a given meaning can in fact be totally unrelated. but i would love for someone with the expertise to look into the words bride, bright, breed, brood, birch, and possibly birth, burden, and even braid and bird...i am sure that bright and birch stem from PIE bhereg, meaning shining, bright, white, radiant. i'm not accepting the hypothetical derivation of bride from PIE bhreu, (brew, boil, cook) at least not in the sense usually given (the work of a daughter-in-law). but perhaps in the sense that a bride had "a bun in the oven", ie, was 'cooking' a new life inside her, bubbling with life force--yes. and the lists of cognates that simply mean 'daughter-in-law' as an extension of the simple 'woman about to be married' or 'newly married woman' look as if they are a later vision, or one that reduces the concept to merely one of patriarchal relationship whilst forgetting the original meaning of *why* a woman was marriageable. see also PIE bhrto/bher (bear, carry) for an origin of the word birth, central to this whole question. a bride is indeed all of these things, a being bright, warm, bubbling with new life, carrying a child, brooding/breeding, deft at household tasks that transform raw materials into useful or beautiful things, preparing for birth, perhaps wearing a distinctive braided hairstyle, and possibly a newcomer to a household as daughter-in-law. the goddess who shares all of these attributes might also be braiding the fates of children yet to come or spinning and weaving the strands of fortune for all who look to her...

why do tears come when we see a young bride at her wedding, though it is a happy occasion? could we be remembering an old, old sense of the hazard she might run in accepting pregnancy, not to mention the vicissitudes of married life in patriarchal times? yes, weep for the girl who may pay for pleasure with her life, who leaves her family home to live with strangers, whose value will lie in bearing children and working hard in house and farm. weep for the weight she takes on her pretty young shoulders, the weight of turning the wheel of all life, and bringing a family forward in time. "the one life eats itself", and the bride is there, filled with life force, waiting to be consumed by life. even the goddesses reflected this central human figure, symbol-weighted and poignant, powerful and perilous.

feeding time

some people are bread for the journey

others are stones in your shoes.

we remember the pain 

but the joys grow hazy.

beloved faces blur in memory

as grief draws salt from the life-blood,

making it hard to think, to move,

to do the one thing needful now,

and the next, and the next.

how do we bear it?

the joy, the grief.

the way life stretches ahead,

stretches us thin,

then compresses suddenly

into a few remaining years,

less sand in the top of the hourglass

than in the bottom.

break it, clench the sand 

as tightly as you can---

it still runs out.

what was it about our lives

that made so many of our children

choose not to become parents themselves?

was it a fault in our navigation,

the abandoned cities of dreams

we overflew on our way,

or the irony of effort spent

as we refused to make them latch-key kids like us,

or the lacklustre world handed down?

the owl sits in the wood's edge and hoots,

"who cooks for you?"

and i laugh, because i cook for me,

i fed the bread people 

and the stone people

and the children and the cats

and myself.

still seeking sweetness

for this leaking boat of a body

for the coracle heart inside,

i raise a glass to the owl

and plan my dinner.

wasteland

what is alive still in us,

proof against the age and rage

and slowly eroding hope,

what still rises within fresh 

as a fish to a flung fly 

when we greet half-willing day,

what embers of force still live,

what passions could we persuade 

to stay, greening our browned hearts,

what baggage do we carry

that is of use, not burden

but blessing, a pyx of gold,

what do we have left to hold,

whom does the grail of our hearts

still serve, and have we yet nerve

enough to reach out for it

with joined hands, peregrine souls,

no map, just a homecoming?

ecoda

my church is trees and mountains 

my temple:

silence under bright and teeming stars

to find what is holy in humans

i need spaces empty of them

my tribe burns holes

in all they touch

give me instead 

a kinship of owls 

a reverent nation of ants

stately harmless herds

of deer or horses

let moss drink these tears 

which are for us all

let us become small again 

dispersing into green

swan song

white wings beat overhead

and a calling

from long outstretched necks

shatters the silence

of early morning

the sound can pull

spirit from body

bend time

rouse longing

start tears

and close the throat

with a grief

you can't define

this may be how

the ancestors speak to us

or our own souls

we can but bless them

as they come and go

and i hope

like a swan

to find my own way home

in time

faery gold

we all go into the forest of life to seek our deaths

some days we drown in flowers,

surfeit on sugared shingles.

arrayed in barbed jewels we stab our own hearts

for something red to drink

we scrabble with broken nails in the dirt,

digging for our souls

or planting magic beans

hiding our treasures for others to find,

these are the exile's choices.

life pays us in kind with faery gold,

we are left with pockets full of leaves.

we go girdled in longing that chokes,

and sit spinning bloodied straw

clawed up from the floor

of this place we call living,

both torture chamber and birthing room.

the difference is merely

what comes out of it---

death or life, both pain-borne---

the difference is how we exit:

clutching softness or spite.

i want to go with my hands full of light

i want to be emptied of all but love.

vardlokkur

amongst the meadows, a forest

in the forest, a clearing

in the clearing, a fence of thorns

inside the fence, a circle of stones

a man there, drumming

a woman there, drumming

a younger woman, singing

an older woman, whispering, rocking

their shadows bend and waver 

making lines of darkness over the grass

dancing with their movements

shifting with the light and cloud-shade

the old woman sees life-lines

like runes etched in sand

taken by the tide

each wave claiming a little more clarity

if the song is rightly sung

if the drumming follows her heart

she may read something there

something precious and true

whirling sun and changeful moon

a tree big enough to hold the world

a sea that birthed all life

transgressions, redemptions

time itself unspools before her 

an evil smoke on the horizon

a rainbow reflected in a pool

which is future, which is past

how to choose the strands

how to read the web

all spins, all flares and wanes

and then, she knows

she reads the people's doom

warp, weft, and woof

from the fate-lines dimming now

vanishing into the air

domestic

she wears an apron 

but that doesn't mean 

she is tame.

her pockets are full 

of the things you fear,

poisonous plants, knives,

your cut nails and hair.

you stepped hard upon

her dreams, and things seem 

not the same 

as when you would pull

her close, hold her dear.

remember that wives

require some care.

memento vivere

easter morning came fair,

warm, not hot, sunny after days of rain.

happy heathens, we nonetheless 

planned a good dinner,

put a good bottle in to cool.

cooking prep done, i sat on the porch

and ate a mango

for once not reading nor scrolling while i ate,

simply enjoying the soft air,

the scent of hyacinths in bloom,

bars of birdsong.

i watched a sparrow in a forsythia bush.

i ate my mango with attentive relish,

admiring its vivid yellow that flirts with orange,

its fragrant sweetness, 

the softness of it in the teeth.

i thought of the long hibernation 

of the year past, 

everyone at home but not At Home,

felt the soreness of my post-vaccination arm,

one down, one to go, nearly there.

i thought how near a thing death is,

no matter what pretty hedges we plant before it.

a faint springtime smell of earth drifted up

as i watched a worm make his slow way

across a paving stone, 

then diving into soil as i would water.

mango, hyacinth, forsythia, 

worm, sun, song, sparrow---

i paid attention to you today, and i thank you all.

spring dallies and may leave in a rush,

hurtling through bud--bloom--leaf so fast

(blink and you will miss it)

much as we all do, unspooling from our births.

and i am not blinking so much today;

tutored by fruit and flowers, 

i have remembered that i live.

not a promise

a kiss is not a claim 

or promise

your fingers do not tattoo her

mark her yours

her fierce responsiveness

is not your doing

not alone

but part of her

herself

she will forget you

the bed, remade,

is hers again

your name will linger

no longer than smoke

from the snuffed candle

this is how you do it

and if it works for you

dear boy,

believe me,

it works very well

for her.

kintsugi

slant-wise, sideways, 

come to me now.

lover long wished for,

come now or never,

come soon or too late

come crookedly to me.

slant-wise, sideways,

come to me now.

man i've never known,

bend to me tender

cup my jagged heart

tightly against your chest.

slant-wise, sideways,

come to me now.

let your broken bits

be smooth and gentle

let them not grate rough

upon my open hands.

slant-wise, sideways,

come to me now.

never to be owned,

see the best in me

do not call it weak

but love it all the more.

slant-wise, sideways,

come to me now.

man of my late dreams,

come a crooked way

bitter detour path

no meadow, but a wood.

slant-wise, sideways,

come to me now.

bring a phoenix love

bring a begging bowl

one that doesn't leak

with every offering.

slant-wise, sideways,

come to me now.

build a crooked house,

waning moon above,

build a bentwood bed

to rest our weary souls.

on pain of waking

in dreams i know who i am,

limitless, surefooted,

free of pain

i relearn poise

how to hush and hold myself

folded into the flow

it's easy to be wise when 

animals speak and humans don't

no lies are told in dreams

i listen to the deer with human eyes

and see through walls to 

star glitter or sunrise

my shoulders sprout wings

creamy, surprising things, and

even though i never fly in dreams

it's a wonder and comfort

just to feel them there

but every morning,

i'm just me again

Finding the Fire Mother

Auntie made the fire at the edge of the garden, where the cultivated bumped up against the wild in the form of a living fence of bramble and saplings. She laid a tidy circle of stones, and set within them the pieces of sacred trees she had gathered over a week or so of solitary rambles. Prayerfully she lit the tinder in the spaces between the sticks, using an ember carried from the stove, and breathed on it. She looked at me, unspeaking---Auntie never spoke if she could help it when she was doing her rituals and I had learned to hear her unvoiced instructions pretty well after two years of following her about. I leant forward and breathed on the little licking flames too. The two of us crouched there sharing our breath with the fire until it was strong. It burned and she fed it for hours with more twigs from rowan and birch, oak and holly, hazel and hawthorn and yew.

As it burned low, she placed dried flowers on the ghost-shapes of burnt away sticks and they went to ash almost at once, ghostly too with a teasing brief waft of scent, no more. Once the flames were out, she fetched a poker and began to turn the ashes, pulling odd bits of charcoaled wood and examining them, looking, as she had told me earlier, for the Mother, the black mother from the heart of the fire. "You have to find the one with the face", she explained, answering the question I hadn't dared to ask aloud. After a few minutes of digging with the poker, she ranged a row of dark, sooty pieces of charred wood before her, and began to scrutinise each one in turn. She set the rejected pieces down reverently, not carelessly, in a group by the fire stones. The next one she picked up was looked at longer, turned this way and that, but finally set aside with the others. Then she found her; there was an instant recognition. Wordlessly she held the burnt wooden form up so I could see, too. It did have a vaguely human, womanly shape, and where the face should be I could see a pair of indentations like eyes, and perhaps---was I imagining it---the hint of a mouth? I looked up at aunt, and she nodded, and set this one in a small basket she had brought, under a rose-bush, while she stacked the stones from the fire-ring in a pile and raked apart the ashes.

The fire darkened stones she returned to the field, and the faceless pieces of wood she set in a bowl in the kitchen. Later she would grind them to powder in the bigger mortar, keeping one jar-full for treating stomach aches, and another for making ink. But the Fire Mother she brought into our house, and prepared to place her on the icon shelf in the corner. We had only the one icon, a little image of the Lady in her starry blue cloak and crimson gown holding out her hands as though inviting an embrace. My mother used to hold out her arms in that way to me when I came in to supper, before she died. Auntie made a little shrine box for the Fire Mother, using an old picture frame and beeswax, and wrapping her with red thread in a criss-cross pattern, and adding a special stone with a hole in it, a tiny linen bundle containing certain herbs tied shut with more red thread, a blue glass bead, a small seashell, and dried rosebuds from the hedge. She placed the Fire Mother on the shelf next to the Lady's icon, and stepped back to look at them. She turned to me and said, "They are twins, you see", and I nodded, though I didn't quite know what she meant by it.

I thought it over for days after, sitting where I could see the icon shelf, playing cat's cradle with a bit of string, watching the shapes made by the string lines, coming and going as i moved my fingers. Sometimes the shapes echoed the lines of the red thread wrapped around the Fire Mother; sometimes they were like points on stars. I sat there running my carved horse and cart over the rug, using the patterns on it as roads, dark and bright woven together, shapes emerging and linking endlessly. The same shapes were stitched on the cloth that draped the shelf, on Auntie's apron, at the edges of our blouses. They were carved into the triangle-topped post that marked my mother's grave, too, and painted on the bee houses in the garden. All around me such shapes warded us and guided the eye through their patterns, red lines, black lines, like tree branches intersecting against the sky, dark against the light. I liked the Lady in the starry cloak, and I liked the Fire Mother in her red thread. They drew the eye in different ways; but the Lady felt high and distant from my world, while the Fire Mother felt close. Her sooty form had darkened my hands and my aunt's, and she came to us from our own fire, in our own place. In her subtle features there was room for all our needs, all our sorrows. Fire Mother could hold it all, the burning darkness and the red light, the soot and the clean loaf, a human heart's longing and pain.

The Rocking Chair

The old man walked through the long grass, patched with furze and heather, slowly but strongly. He knew this land, all its gentle rolls and the craggy bits sloping up to a slice of sky. He was a boy in this place, and he was walking to the house where he grew up. The landscape so familiar, even after so many years away; as he walked and looked, the present scene was overlain by remembered images of the same place in different seasons, different years. It tugged at him hard, like a fish-hook in the gut. A well-set hook, yes, and now he saw the old croft as he crested a low hill, cradled in its place by the clear cold stream in which he learned to fish. Running smoothly now, but in his palimpsest memory he recalled it winter-stilled and spring-rampant too. At the yard's edge he stood a moment, letting the remembered image die away, deliberately looking hard at the house as it now was. The walls seemed sound enough, but most of the plastering had fallen away in the years of weather, revealing the grey stones that had built it. The roof was sunken in on itself, slate tiles lying here and there, and doubtless more inside. His hand touched the doorframe gently, hesitantly, as though he feared to wake some sleeping spirit within the house with human noise. His fingers slid down the frame edge, stopping when he felt an engraved area: his own name could still be read clearly there, Donnall, scratched into the wood with a pen-knife when he was about 7 years old. He breathed a bit there, one hand on the door, head bowed, wrestling with himself.

After a moment, he sighed and pushed open the door. Inside it was brighter than it should have been, from the light pouring in through the holes in the roof. Only his eyes moved, taking in the empty shelves, the barren hearth, tumbled slates on the floor, a lone flowered teacup by the sink, the rusting pump handle, a tippy stack of old milk pans, dust---so much dust---the empty bedsteads, and oh, his heart---the old rocking chair. Tears brimmed, trembled, and finally spilled down his cheeks. He did not sob aloud, but his chest heaved like the ocean a few times, and he bent forward, resting his arms on his bent knees for a few minutes. Time swam around him. All the years of his boyhood crowded up until he felt nigh smothered by his own lived days, good days though they had been. Slowly he stood up again and moved about the house, tapping timbers with the fire iron, poking at cracked slates, caressing the smooth old table top, and coming to rest on the hard edge of a bed frame. He would not sit in the rocking chair, though it was the only chair left in the house. Not yet. He felt he must earn that, somehow. The house was old, and that rocking chair perhaps two hundred years younger than  the house itself; in his own memory it was always his grandmother sitting there, but of course his own mother had nestled him in her arms there for a bit, and the grandmother, and her mother, and so on, in some chair on that hearth, back into the times of vexatious kings.

After his mother had left his father, who turned out to be a shouter and worse, she brought him home to his grandmother's house. There he stayed the day she went back to fetch her things, but she never came back because his father pushed her down the loft stair, and went to prison for it. No one seemed to recall they'd had a toddler, in the turbulence of the times that was just starting, and Donnall's grandmother raised him alone, a law unto herself, and the saving of the quiet child who spoke little but watched everything. The buses still ran regularly then, but mostly they stayed on the croft. He followed his grandmother about from sun-up to sun-down, and only left when she passed away. He was 18 years old, formally unschooled though not unlettered; and he went away to work at the first of many labouring jobs, travelling a bit, and meeting a dark-eyed girl named Mairead who became his wife. They settled in a town nearer to the old coastline, where he did a bit of this and that, bringing up their son, small Donnall. They called him Donnall Beg, and Donall became known as Donnall Mor, to distinguish them. And he grew to a bonny tall lad, settled in his own work, and married a smiling young woman who gave them a grandson within a year. They were happy, and Donnall Mor had no complaints although he had worries, as did all living in the transition times, until the day Mairead fell ill---and shortly after died---of one of the new sicknesses that had been going about the world.

Domnall felt that there was a hole in the world, and it had pulled away his wife. He worried that it would pull too many others along with her. There was truth to that; many died of illness, even illness that in former times was treated easily. Some were pulled away by despair, or by simple hunger, and some by violence or accident, as came to happen to his son. The younger Donnall died senselessly when he was hit by a truck dispersing rioters, though he was not rioting himself, but only queueing to buy food when the rioters rushed past in the narrow street. Ever since his son's death, so soon after his wife's, Donnall had lost the sense of comfort and surety that he had always carried with him. Now, seeing his grandmother's rocking chair, something long asleep curled and stretched within him. It was like a talisman--lost, forgotten, then found unhoped for and unsought in a corner, as powerful as the day it was made. The old chair, dusty as it was, seemed still full of her spirit and love. Although he had no certainty when he came, now he was filled with purpose.

And he would earn that chair, he would. He came back with a tent, and a toolbox, and a few days later a well-used farm lorry loaded with lumber chugged its way to where the old road ended and the path to the croft began. The road had been made long ago for horses and wagons, and never really paved or widened for cars, and the driver looked a little harried. The old man hailed him and came down to meet him, and together they unloaded the lumber and sundries onto the grass. The young farmer found himself a little worried at the idea of a man his grandfather's age ferrying all that heavy wood up the path on his own, and he asked the old man who was doing the work for him. Himself and no other, was the answer, but he hoped to get a bit of help with the heavy lifting.

He felt fortunate to have had the farmer's help getting the lumber. There weren't many automobiles left on the roads, other than emergency response vehicles and the bare-bones, infrequent transit coaches. All others needed a government permit for farm use or light industry or delivery of essential equipment. Which was a good thing, overall, of course; but it did mean things needed a deal of planning, especially in the hinterlands. He didn't have much cash; few people did, anymore, since the banks had failed. But the farmer had agreed to fetch and deliver his materials in exchange for two years' grazing rights on Donnall's land. Some might have thought it a steep price for an afternoon's drive, but the old man wanted to see sheep about the place again, and was content.

Bit by bit, he cleared the fallen slates from inside and outside, sorting the good ones for re-use and piling the shattered ones in the yard. He cleaned the interior thoroughly, taking great pleasure in seeing the wood gleaming clean and well oiled and waxed as his grandmother had taught him. He sanded and oiled the sink pump, and made a new cistern for it, cleanly and well-sealed in the traditional way. He mended the floor where it was water damaged, and ended up replacing nearly the whole thing, as he had expected. He had hung waterproof canvas up where the roof had holes, with new tubs beneath just to be on the safe side. He cleared and mended the privy behind the house, intending to see about fitting it with a composting septic system later. He piled stones and slates to mark out the kail-yard again, digging the old stones from the overgrown edges and stacking them tidily to make the beds hold soil properly, and made notes of seeds and plants to fetch in. He staked out and wove a wattle fence around the kail-yard, thinking ahead to the arrival of those sheep. He tended to fallen hinges, creaky windows, and popped nails. He shored up the little cow-shed, and planned for its thatching. Not once in all this time did he sit in the rocking chair to rest. Instead, he brought in a pair of second-hand chairs, got in trade for his tent, and sat at the table. In a trading meet he found and polished up a little side table, a wee thing big enough for a candle and a teacup, no more, which looked much like the one that his grandmother used by her rocking chair years ago. In the long evenings, he sat outside, and spoke to passing bees. Soon, house and yard looked very ship-shape, wanting only a new roof and a good thick coat of plaster over the grey stone walls.

Donnall felt that it was time to get in the extra hands needed to tackle the roofing and the other remaining heavy work. He took the weekly coach from the nearest stop, which was a long walk from the croft. It made him ponder building a small stable and getting a horse, a nice draught cross, who might be ridden to the housing estate nearby and also pull a small wagon or cart. The small stable enlarged mentally to make space for storage of hay and said vehicle and tack. He continued to dream his croft dreams as the coach rattled toward town. Once there, he found the house belonging to his daughter-in-law Ivona and grandson Thomas, and after accepting a much-needed cup of tea, began to tell them his plan.

Since her husband had been killed during the riots back when the stores were mostly empty, when people finally lost hope that the old ways were going to be salvaged, Ivona had kept mostly to herself. She let the spare bedroom in exchange for food and other goods, and schooled her small son on her own. She'd lost all comfort in crowds and market places, and left the house as little as she could. No real schooling standards had been established after the breakdown of the old system, so she could let him sing rhymes and read fairy tales along with her and make moss gardens by the brick wall, and leave the arithmetic for later. Her eyes had a light in them not seen for several years when Donnall finished explaining that he wanted to make the croft a proper home for them, for the three of them, away from town's bad memories and with good soil and sun to grow food.

He asked her to name any young folk she knew of who were strong for working and good-hearted, willing to learn what he could teach of the older ways. His childhood, living with his grandmother who'd never made peace with a modern world, in the "unimproved" croft house she clung to despite social workers and government schemes, had given him a grounding in an ancient style of life that very few had in his generation. Now he wanted to share the knowledge with young people, reclaiming a decent life out of the wreckage of modernity. He had been told that the housing estate between the town and the croft had been refashioning itself into something betwixt the old and the new, creating a sort of community to replace the failed services and aiming for self-sustainability with communal gardens, pastures, and fields; even recruiting their best home-brewer to run a sort of pub out of one of the unoccupied homes, and working together on a curriculum and schoolrooms for the children in another. He'd gone to visit the place, and found it hopeful. But they needed help, skilled help, in learning to build and repair structures, in planning their plantings, with a thousand other things: fencing, hedging, preserving food, dairying, foraging, tending orchards, beekeeping, making and using herbal remedies, first aid, midwifery, metal-working, potting, septic systems work, water purification, fibre-crafts and textiles...

It had come to him that his childhood had given him some of the skills they needed, and he felt sure that there must be others his age, and perhaps a few younger too, who could fill in the gaps. He could teach them much on the croft, as they set right the roof under his direction, and built the farm buildings he needed alongside him. He'd put them in touch with the farmer, too, that they might learn husbandry and grain farming and hay-making in the old ways, without much machinery. Rumour was that one day, the interweb would return, once sustainability issues were worked out and technical aspects utterly reconfigured, but no one seemed to know if that would happen within the remainder of his lifetime. In its absence, he and other oldsters and any skilled folk---the original web of knowledge---would have to take its place.

The day that the roof was fully and finely repaired on the old house, extending smoothly over it and the addition on the back that nearly doubled its size, he felt a stone roll off his heart. And the day that the plastering of it was finished, and the house stood white as a winter moon, white as new milk, shining against the grass, another weight slipped from his chest. Leading his daughter-in-law and grandson into the house, he watched them closely; seeing the boy's eyes looking this way and that and finding no fault with anything he saw, and seeing the peace in the mother's eyes as she saw the new bedroom and bath in the addition, he knew that he had done right.

Donnall felt a great contentment, unknown for some years. He felt his grief for his wife and son lying quieter, as though he'd discharged some final duty to his family, although in which direction he could not say; he felt both ancestors and descendants were placated, drawn closer, linked through him and given a new beginning. He rocked gently in the old chair, soothed by the remembered soft creaking of the rockers against wood floor and hearthstone. He thought to himself, we had a hand in breaking the world, my generation; we didn't know, couldn't see, didn't listen. And so it's right that we have a hand in mending it, those of us who can look far enough back into the past to see the future. When Ivona set young Thomas in his grandfather's lap, he felt the child's heart beat under his encircling arm. There seemed almost a word spoken in its rhythm, much like the sound of their gentle rocking. It was a familiar, comforting sound, and he would carry it into his dreams at nights.

cargo cult

i will not buy my own survival
with a bundle of someone else's bones
that's the old cult,
the doomed and flailing priests' untruths,
prostrate before their unclean altar
with their smutty souls like so much smoke.
they burnt everything they touched,
shovelled the earth itself into the furnace,
stole the future from under our noses,
built a runway to nowhere,
and now they stand there, shameless,
demanding sacrifice---
loosing more lies, more smoke,
death-wrapped, death-dealing,
worse than plague,
feeding on fear. there is no hecatomb
they will not require (of others),
foul hands outstretched,
red with blood, slime green from clutching money,
dripping injustice, grasping at straws
to prop up their temple.
to no avail; the earth herself moves
uneasily beneath its weight,
sucked hollow to sustain it,
and no amount of immolation
can turn aside their fall.
not a million sick grandparents,
not our children's future,
not species winking into non-existence,
nothing---nothing can save them.
they will still ask, insist, dragoon, threaten, and take,
but they are done. the temple crumbles even now.
let the flames sputter out, let the ash grow cold,
let the bones be buried.
let this long shambles be dismantled,
and build a thing of grass and trees,
the only green currency we need.

When They Tell You Who They Are, Believe Them

(Not a poem so much as a cri de coeur from America)

when people tell you who they are...
believe them.
so far this "government" has told us:
they don't care about education.
they don't care about women.
they don't care about refugees.
they don't care about the poor.
they don't care about qualification to hold office.
they don't care about honesty.
they don't care about facts.
they don't care about people who aren't white.
they don't care about children.
they don't care about justice.
they don't care about the earth.
they don't care about the future.
they don't care about health.
they don't care about democracy.
they don't care about the sick.
and now, they have said, in no uncertain terms,
that they don't care about the elders.
they have made it perfectly clear
that all they care about is their money and their power,
both of which have come from us.
well, i believe them.
and i believe that it's time for us to tell them
who we are:
we the people,
and take it back.