Before I published my blog I quietly started doing research on Instagram. I stumbled upon these women that have accounts dedicated to their goddess-ness. They post these otherworldly images of themselves in flowing skirts and jangly bracelets while baby wearing using their own homemade wraps woven from alpaca fur. Ok, maybe not alpaca, but whatever this shit is it’s definitely conflict free. They post pictures with captions like, “Here is the pic of my aura we got taken at the metaphysical conference.”
I followed them with curiosity, watching as they celebrated the winter solstice while wishing each other “love, truth and light” in the next lunar cycle. They were having gorgeous drum circles while nursing their babes in front of a teepee from Pottery Barn, wearing the Navajo inspired blanket ponchos they bought at Anthropologie.
There are frequent quotes about revolution. A revolution from what exactly is never really specified.
They give birth in their bathtubs, and post pictures of the organic smoothies and salads eaten by their crystal necklace wearing toddlers. Every image is flawless and professional looking. All of them thin and willowy with long wavy hair. The backgrounds nearly as whitewashed as the women, with the rays of sun filtering through palm leaves. One time I spotted a moderately overweight woman, nursing a baby in the background of their drum circle. I’m not sure how she got there. Perhaps she was an interloper or just an apparition.
I know where you think I’m headed with this. You think I’m going to call bullshit on it all.
I want in.
Sign me up for the crunchy pagan Mama spiritual retreat. Let the sage burning, chanting, herbal tea and trust falls begin! Let’s sync up our menstrual cycles and have long meaningful conversations about mother earth and astrology. Let’s wear our babies around in printed fabric woven by someone in Rancho Cucamonga who claims to be a shaman.
Only I’ll need to make a few changes, just a few.
First instead of traveling to some Burning Man-esque desert paradise and setting up teepees we’ll just stay right here in the suburbs. I know, I know, we’ll lose a lot of the charm and authenticity (whatever the fuck that is) but let’s face it, long car rides with small children and pregnant ladies are no fun.
Secondly, the drums and sage burning we’ll replace with another ancient spiritual tradition, tequila. But only the purest most organic agave shit, blessed by a high priestess. Perhaps Cabo Wabo?
No corporate shit. No basic bitches here.
And speaking of “high priestesses,” I get to be one. Just sounds bad ass. Ok fine, you can be one too if you want. But you have to bring your own handmade, velvet, hooded cape. (Seriously when are velvet capes coming back in style?)
Now that I think about it the ceremony we’re going to perform is not really suitable for babies, small children, large children, or men of any kind. So no kids or husbands. This would just mess with our natural female power, our “juju” if you will.
We’re going to form a large circle and begin by joining hands and thanking the goddesses that came before us. Then the high priestess will begin with the formality of introduction. The first goddess called to speak will put on the headdress of some ethnic group she doesn’t quite understand. Then she must announce her name, age, favorite gangsta rap song and from which tribe she hails. By tribe I mean which residential neighborhood you live in. Here’s an example:
“I’m Sarah, from the noble Whispering Pines subdivision overseen by the ever powerful Warren Management HOA. I’m thirty-six years old and the song that most embodies my journey is Westside Connection’s “Get Ignit”
At this point the goddess shall take a swig of the blessed Cabo Wabo from a golden chalice purchased at World Market (if there isn’t one in your area a Pier One Imports will suffice) and pass it to the right along with the headdress. Actually, two swigs.
Sip, sip, give bitch.
We’ll continue this way all night until I eventually text someone’s husband a picture of my boobs while we sit around the kitchen eating nachos and talking about sex.
Spiritual as fuck.
I may even whip out my Celtic Tarot card set I purchased at Barnes&Noble when I was seventeen. Don’t worry it’s totally legit, and it tells the future with 100% accuracy. The cards are left up to your own interpretation of course.
In the morning we’ll awake to the warm sun on our faces, refreshed by mother earth and her sweet kisses of morning dew.
Actually, that’s just for those of you who passed out in the front yard, and you’ll most likely feel deep remorse and aching joints.
I’ve been told Our Lady of the Waffle House can fix that.
Come on, who’s with me? Also, do you have a Ouija Board we can borrow?
I’m kidding, I totally already have a Quija Board. Obviously.