Mother Goddess and Me

by Nancy King

When a group with whom I was traveling entered the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations in Ankara , Turkey, they headed for the Mother Goddess exhibit. Even hearing the word “mother” makes me tense; mine was good at making apple pie but never learned the recipe for loving and nurturing, associated in most people’s minds with the way a mother ought to be. And since I’ve never been beautiful or powerful, I don’t go out of my way to seek images of goddesses—never saw one with whom I could identify. So, when the group went right, I went left, agreeing to meet them at the bus.
 
I wandered around, looking at the world-class collection of Hittite culture, impressed by antiquity but not fully engaged until I saw her and stopped. I literally could not move. I forgot where I was. All I saw was the small gold statue in a glass case. She called to me. She demanded my attention. Unlike other Mother Goddess statues I’ve seen, one more voluptuous than the next, this Hittite Mother Goddess had skinny arms and legs. Her hands, which rested on her belly, expressed resignation and vulnerability. What was her power over me? Why couldn’t I stop looking at her? I laughed at my foolishness. She was only a statue in a glass case. My feet weren’t glued to the floor. I could move. I could catch up with the group. And yet, I couldn’t. I stayed, Transfixed. Spellbound. Unable to move.
 
My instantaneous, powerful connection to the skinny earth mother mystified me. She wasn’t beautiful. She didn’t seem extraordinary. She had no compelling history that identified her as a goddess. Yet I had the weird sensation that I knew her, that she knew me, that she wanted me to tell her story. I would have stood there for a much longer time, staring, when two visitors jostled me, breaking the spell of the Goddess. One of them told me that my tour group was leaving. Uncharacteristically, with an impulse I didn’t understand, I raced to the Museum Shop and bought a small copy of the Hittite Mother Goddess statue before I ran to the waiting bus.

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My Main Man Meows

by Nancy King 

My journey through life as a single woman was changed forever by a phone call. 

The woman spoke quickly, as if to prevent me from hanging up. “When I left the restaurant on the New Jersey Turnpike a cat followed me to my car and jumped into it. I couldn’t resist his purrs so I took him with me and had him checked out by my vet. Turns out he’s healthy, neutered, has no front claws, and is a pedigreed cat. But when I brought him home he attacked my two cats. He’s been in my basement for two weeks, howling. He’s really beautiful. Would you take him?”

I’d just returned from four months in Europe, knee deep in bills, letters, and phone messages. Who needed one more thing to take care of? And yet, I heard myself say, “I’m not about to take a cat I’ve never met.”

“Great, I’ll bring him over tonight.” She arrived, loaded down with litter box, food, cat dish, comb, and cat.

Imagine a large, skinny, sleek black animal with long limbs and golden eyes. Imagine a cat that is brought to your doorstep by a woman you barely know, who has called out of desperation, a cat that stares at you so intensely it’s difficult not to look away. Imagine a cat that uses sound as if it were language.

The woman stood in the doorway, ready to leave, not bothering to hide her relief. The cat ignored her as he followed me into the kitchen, then sat, staring at me as I put food into the dish. Within fifteen minutes he had eaten, pooped, and fallen asleep on my lap. So began a fifteen and a half year journey of love and devotion unequaled in my life.

Fumi, Italian for smoke, was too hard to pronounce so I changed it to Funi, but he was so talkative I added Pushkin, and so dramatic, I added Bernhardt. Funi became Funus Pushkin Bernhardt when he deliberately knocked over a vase of flowers, sat on papers ready to be mailed, or played with the keys of my computer. My cat’s response? He would turn his nose up in the air, give me a disdainful look, and saunter away, dignity intact, wiggling his bottom seductively, oblivious to my anger, frustration or disbelief.

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Cancer Diagnosis: No Chirps, Please

by Nancy King

The outer trip to the oncologist’s office takes about fifteen minutes from my house. The inner journey, which has been going on for twenty-four years, continues. One can be in remission from leukemia, but there’s no knowing for how long. It can return, seemingly from one day to the next, with no warning except perhaps for unusual fatigue and weird sweating. I’ve learned to live with the uncertainty of remission by telling myself, “For the moment, all is well.”

Since being diagnosed with cancer I’ve gotten a lot of advice, most of it unasked for. Much of it makes me want to scream, or worse. I have been told: “Cancer is a gift.” “You have to have a positive attitude or you won’t get well.” “You’ve always taken such good care of yourself, how can you have cancer?” “If you dwell on the dark side you’re going to make yourself even more sick.” “What have you done to bring this on yourself?” “You’re lucky, they have medicine for the kind of leukemia you have.” It took me a long time to realize that most of their comments are fueled by their fear. Perhaps they think that acknowledging and facing the dark side of life is a trip from which there is no return. In my experience, it’s about discovering a healthy inner balance. I could not find my way back to life and light until I dealt with the dark side. It’s a scary journey but a return ticket is not only possible, it helps to create one’s new life.

Reading about people with cancer makes me wonder why it is that only positive thoughts are allowed.

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CONFESSIONS OF A CLAUSTROPHOBIC FLYER

by Nancy King

Sartre was wrong.Hell isn’t other people, it’s flying with a company I will call WeDon’tCare Airlines.

The first sign of trouble came when I printed out my boarding pass and noticed I had no seat assignment even though I’d booked seats for all my flights. I called WeDon’tCare and was treated to: “Our menu has recently changed . . .” and there was no option to speak to anyone resembling a person. Silly me. After listening to too many: “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize . . .” I began to press numbers randomly to relieve my irritation and frustration. Much to my shock, I connected to a reasonable facsimile of a human. I quickly stated my dilemma in case she hung up. “I’m not able to assign you a seat, you’ll have to go to www.wereallydontcare.com and book your seat there.

“I don’t have access to a computer,” I told her.

Not missing a beat, she repeated herself and added, “You can book a seat when you check in.”

“But what if there are no seats available?”

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BUGS, BANKS, and GUNS

by Nancy King

I woke up, itching intensely. My thigh had been bitten by an execrable critter with the temerity to invade my bedding and create a huge and hideous scarlet welt that thumbed its nose at all the anti-itch creams and ointments in my medicine cabinet.

An hour later, still itching and scratching, I went online to look at my bank transactions and got a disagreeable error message; there was a system failure. I was denied admittance. After talking to too many bank employees I finally learned that a recent Mac security upgrade had affected my online bank access. I contacted an Apple technician and was told, “Your three-year warranty’s run out. We don’t offer renewals but you can pay forty-nine dollars for a month’s work of help.”

“That’s totally unreasonable. The Mac security upgrade caused the problem.”

“Nothing I can do about it, it’s company policy. Do you want the renewal?”

I asked to speak to a supervisor who finally agreed to waive the fee and offer much needed help. For over two hours she experimented, asking me to click and unclick, install and uninstall—tactics designed to remedy the situation. Nothing worked. “If you want online access you’ll have to un-install your operating system and re-install it,” she said. Me? The terrified, still itching and scratching, technophobe?

Desperate, I called the bank back and told the web specialist what the Apple technician had said. No way could I remember which techno tricks she had tried. He agreed to contact the bank’s systems people to see what they could do but it would take time. How much? He didn’t know. My itching intensified.

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Not Exactly a Hallmark Card, Mother

by Nancy King

As part of a course in spirituality, we were asked to create a card for Mother’s Day in ten minutes or less. The words tumbled out unbidden. Uncensored. I showed it to the course leader and told her, “It’s not exactly a Hallmark card so if you feel it’s not appropriate for me to read it to the group, that’s okay.”

She read it, stared at me for a moment, and then said, “There are all kinds of mothers in this world. We need to honor each child’s experience.”

The first three Mother’s Day cards were full of love and thank you and gratitude and blessings. It was time to read mine.

What card do I send to my mother?
My mother holds her baby’s head beneath the waves
The ocean cannot bear to look.
Vomits waves to break her hold.
Swims a lifeguard to the child.
Returns the baby to her mother.

My mother smiles coquettishly. Says, “Thank you.”
Screams at the child, "Why don't you die?"

What card do I send to my mother?
My mother breaks a board upon her daughter’s body.
The child does not protest.
Ignores the blood that pours upon the carpet.
My mother screams, “You'll never tell.”
Pushes the child down the stairs.

The crowd gathers.
Sees my mother's tears.

What card do I send to my mother?
My mother screams.
The child stands.
Then runs.
Mother chases.
Slams the child against the floor.
Bangs the head against the floor.
Chokes the childish sounds and breath.

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