Mother Goddess in a Halo of Grandma’s Yoni

First, the Oneness… this Thisness, the Ness, the Thick and Thin of It, the Swim, the God we swim in and Who swims in us, the fabric lifted up by the percipient, the fabric examined by the percipient, the fabric beheld and cast by the percipient, the fabric coddling and cuddling the percipient, the fabric of God influencing the percipient. Here now, here now, it coaxes. Do this here now, for a better there then and here then, for a better here now. Hear now, it says more open, and here now, it whistles. Hear and here like the thick and the thin of it in the swim.

Mother like something softer, mother not like smother, but like recovering, like falling like a stone plopped gently into that pillow, gently into a blanket of velvet. Or even a feather floating softly into that blanket, the feather and the stone together, sure. Both allowed to fall and float as they please and to recover gently into her pillow, her something softness, Mother God.

Mother Goddess in a halo of Grandma’s yoni. Grandma’s yoni of light, and Jupiter’s yoni of light from his head, Athena arrowing outward. Mother Goddess in soft robes, swaddled and swaddles. Mother Goddess unpeeling herself back to virgin on a Venus. Like how a flower closes up for the night and blooms again in the morning, how a flower closes up for the night and blooms again in the morning, some of those flowers. Some of them staying open all night, blooming all night until their petals fall off and seeds are thrown.

Never a crone, never a crone. These lovely mothers and nonmothers aging into their robes. I am catching them all. No one is to be a crone, not one is to be called a crone but rather a mature woman aging into her robe. Her robe can be flying, flapping gently, floating. Her robe can be in repose, all gravity laden. What we see as kind maturity in a man’s face, as handsome maturity—when we see it in a woman’s face, we will also think—oh, yes, this is what I saw in a man’s face and I saw it as handsome, therefore this woman, too, is beautiful. And when we see something that we don’t see in a man’s face, we can also recognize this as beautiful. We do not have to be neotonous in our later years. And when we are plump we too can be recognized as beautiful with the potential to be healthier. Everyone is beautiful, it’s just a matter of peeling back the thoughts and healing and letting the healthy be recognized as well.

Everyone is beautiful, and everyone is poignant. Everyone has the capability to be out in the sun or rain on the sidewalk or in a park or in the wild. Or inside on the hard wood floor, or on a carpet, or on linoleum, tile, a rug. Whatever one is on, one is on. We are all in that velvet yoni loam.

When you see Mother in her Yoni it is the explicitness of expression that is poignant and how everyone has a mother. Even a clone has a mother. Even a cell in a petri dish has a mother. And they all have father, too. And it, the loam, the spread, the ness, the consciousness, this This, this That, what’s now and what’s next—it’s all through the extent of it. This is all through the extent of it. It is all through the extent of it. Productivity is all through the extent of it. The womb of the natural city is all through the extent of it. The womb of the agrarian folk, the agrarian life is all through the extent of it. The agrarian landscape concentrates and pops up a city so that people live more efficiently. It pops it up and it sorts, and we are sorting through this. We are sorting through the assortedness of this to find ourselves through better ways to work through the extent of this. Finding better ways to unwind and wind the hay through it. Finding what to lie fallow and what to make of it. Finding what to let loose, relax and run through it. Making reservations for the reservations. Making reservations for the conservation of the length of it.

~ Lady

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