Rosaries

In Mexico, the closest I came to meeting the Goddess in her velveteen flesh, was when I swam fully bare in the moonlit ocean. And when I participated fully in the mass obsession with La Virgen de Guadalupe. She stands firmly on every corner – drawn upon the crumbling brick walls with chalk. Molded from clay with tired hands. Alive within the bodies of every woman. Infused in the cobblestone and the hot sunshine.

  The Goddess throughout time has been known by many names and many descriptors of the same golden magic. One that shines from the skin of every maiden, mother, and crone like the harvest moon.

…

  The Cathedral of Immaculate Conception lacked the touch of a woman. It was pale yellow in color and stood tall in the heart of Mazatlán between palm trees and variegated, luscious shades of green.  Although ornate and to some eyes, fit for a Queen, it was a Man’s world. A showcase of performative dominance and a colorway failing to represent the truly holy. Gold linings, trim on greyscale. Hidden whispers that command the onlooker to seek beyond these walls. Perched upon the ledges of inner pillars, the figures of priestesses in this house of God were overrun by sorrow and covered in heavy black. I was dressed in white and invoked the Goddess in these cherry wood pews. I was met with silence.

  Outside, women in traditional, Mexican dress sold rosaries with Guadalupe at their center. When I approached the cart with pesos in hand, they smiled at me, motioned to the Great Virgin, and spoke: “She is for you.” My invocation, I knew then, was successful. And I felt in this travel that the truth of this religion was unspoken but effortlessly palpable. It was a devotion to a great mother that served as a connection point to a cyclical oneness. Matrifocal and dedicated. And these strands of beads were tools and talismans interwoven with the prayers to the Goddess. A reminder that She is everywhere, and that is where she must be. Omnipresent, sentimental, and on this day, held tightly in colored glass and pearls.

  The rosary I purchased for myself was composed of pearls, gold, and clear glass. Oceanic and celestial. A mirror of my practice and a gaze into my patron Goddess through the lens of the great virgin. On this day, Venus was veiled in jewel toned robes. Her hands clasped in an iconic image of prayer. I wear her image beneath a dress made of bedsheets between the flush points of my breasts. My heart beats in harmony with my heels on the enchanted, colorful streets.

…

  The Goddess speaks. “Believe in me, the oxblood colored ofrendas, as you believe in the path of the flowers. Allow me to guide you as they do. You hear my words of love inside your mind, but you remain silent.”

  I march through Centro alone to the beat of my own intuition. A feeling of heaviness in the stomach so primal. A pull so sickeningly delicious that lights my way. An inner voice that has been artfully trained by old Gods. There is a recognizable affinity with woman that shields me beyond the blush cotton that drapes over my sun kissed shoulders. I wear it like glitter highlight or sacred oils on my skin. Like traces of clearing smoke preserved in golden strands of hair. This magic is warm and preferring something sweet, pink and heavenly. The hands of angels are in mine as I lose my way.  From my inner pulling, I come to a shop selling silk flowers. The walls are covered in shades of red, yellow, white, and blush. In the center of the shop stands a mother with a baby at her breast. I had found safety and a reaffirming sense of trust in floral imagery as guidance. In Spanish, I asked the mother for the way back to the Cathedral. Her babe extends its arm and hands me a rose made of light blue silk. She gazes at me with large, dark eyes. Mother and child become living relic before my eyes. Together in their exchange, the goddess’ article of virtu, expanding through time from a hallowed lullaby.

  On the way down my newly directed path, a shrine of Guadalupe finds me in an empty alleyway. I smile at the show of protection, of guidance. I stop and clutch my rosary with both hands. I bow my head. “I am still here with you,” she whispers. “Among the flowers and the thorns.”