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New Moon Waxing Crescent

I'm feeling really not-so-goodish right now. When the moon drains of its light, she takes me right down with her, every time. I'm damn near ready to start leaving her little offerings of sweets and trinkets and song, just to appease her. She shakes me to the core until I bleed with her, emptying myself of built up negative energies that fester like a wound.  
Living in sync with the moon creates a spiritual aspect to our cycles as women, and creates the basis for understanding ourselves outside the biology of our bodies.  Focusing solely on the physical realm, we amputate the most central part of ourselves; our sacred beauty, our light, our femininity. The Holy Spirit, in traditional Judaic teachings, is refered to as YHVH's Goddess nature, and the only part of the Holy Trinity described in the feminine form. 

Culturally, so much heat is put on our gender during times of menstruation, and historically the belief that a woman's menstrual blood is dangerous; deadly even, and spans across otherwise unbreakable barriers between religions. And we are dangerous. We become very thin in our connection with the physical, and our thoughts turn inward. We are easily agitated when roused from our introverted state. We can turn waspish, snapping at anyone who interferes with our sacred meditation.



 
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The precise moment last summer when an Italian nationalst visiting England became a mother for the third time was the same moment her infant child disappeared from her womb.

The unnamed woman had been in Britain attending an airline training course at Stansted Airport in Essex when the strange string of events began to unfold; the woman, unable to the passports belonging to her children experienced a panic attack. The police were summoned (the police? Really?!), who then contacted the young woman’s mother back in Italy. The woman’s mother detailed her assumption that her daughter, who had previously been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and was currently under a doctor’s care, surmised that she may not have been taking her prescription. The police claiming that her unborn baby might be in danger, escorted her to the mental hospital, where she was restrained by orderlies and held against her will sectioned under the Mental Health Act.

Take a deep breath; things are about to go from bad to (Holy-Christ-I-can’t-believe-this-shit) WORSE.


 
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***WARNING- POSSIBLE TRIGGERS***

I just finished reading The Yellow Wallpaper for a discussion in a feminist book club I just joined. I thought it would be so easy; there was a link for a free, downloadable PDF available through the Gutenberg Project, so I wouldn’t even have to shell out a few bucks, or worse, have to special order it after waiting until the last minute. The next day, I walked into my local free book exchange, and found a copy. The pages were still crisp and everything. I thought, “Score!” Since it was very short, only thirty-six pages, (not counting the afterward) I was able to off reading it in favor of another book I was excited to start. Less than an hour after I optimistically turned the first pages, I had reached the end.

I HATED that book.

I wanted to throw it across the room. I might still do it. Every time the husband, John, dismissed the wife (did she even HAVE a name? I’m assuming her personal worth does not necessitate an identifying factor, like a NAME) I had to use my utmost self-control and not rip the damn thing in half. My self-control was ADMIRABLE, above all things. NOBODY. GOT. HURT.