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11.27.2007

The Pillage of Wal-Mart

This morning's UPI

So There I was...


Looking at the news. Late in the day after the Feast of Gratitude. There was a video clip of a two women being interviewed by a Local TV reporter clearly at the low end of the Totem Pole. It was this poor man’s job to get a story out of how their shopping had gone. I almost clicked off, and then the camera caught an unusually good angle; the woman’s chin up and out, a laugh rolling out of her mouth, and flash of her eye that meant victory. The look was one that in earlier times or other places would be called blood satiation. She had triumphed and was bringing home the trophies, scalps and booty. She had planned and executed an invasion. The God’s and Goddesses of war had smiled upon her. She was the hero to whom the crowds yell “Die Now! Die Now!” for nothing more noble could be achieved.

She had shopped well.

Oh, my sister. How we have fallen. This is our victory. The pillage of Wal-Mart. The plunder of Target. The sack of Sachs.

Clearly, no one has ever told you who you really are. What you were created to do. Let me try and give you a glimpse. See if it does not sound an echo within your soul.

Our most ancient stories tell us the truth of who we are and what we can do. In every culture, the stories exist. Scheherezade knew these stories. Boudica told these stories to her daughters. These stories tell of heroic women; Judith and Xena. This archetypal woman has come down to our day and turns up as a blonde in Sunnydale. But she is here and she will not go away. You know these stories, you have just forgotten their meaning, and failed at their application.

The oldest story I know is of a garden. Firstmother was seduced by a lie. A fear-based lie. A myth of scarcity. She was told that her creator was holding out on her. She bought the falsehood that she must acquire, by deceit or force, what she was not given. She realizes her mistake very quickly, but the adhesive gum of the price-sticker of that lie stuck to her soul and was passed down.

But not before her creator gave her one more thing.
A task.
He spoke to her seducer and said this.

“You who were made for glory, you who has never had a predator, you have now made an enemy, and her name is woman, and you should be afraid, very afraid for although you will cut her, in the end, she will crush your head.”

Not Firstfather. Not the second Adam who came to plant the new garden. No, SHE was tasked with vermin eradication. She shall have the final victory. Doubt me? Get thee to a Roman church; find the pretty Lady, the one of the serene face, the upturned eyes. Look at her feet, and see what is crushed under them.

Since that day two forces have been competing for your soul, my sister. One, a foul lie from Hell, which says that you are not complete, that you are not good enough, that you must have more, be more. The other force is deeper and more powerful, but often buried, unawakened. It says that you are more powerful than you could ever know – right now. That force knows that evil itself, fears YOU. You were meant to crush poverty. To thwart abuse. To free captives as well as to bind wounds. You were meant to have clear sight, wisdom and power.

But sister, you have bought the lie. You have bought it wholesale, retail and on sale. You have stocked your cupboards with it and put it away for the winter. You have breast-fed and spoon fed it to your babies. Your soul has root cellars full of it.

You have let your enemy bind your feet, so that you cannot stand your ground. You have let your enemy steal your right to read, so that your may not look upon the truth. You have let your enemy impoverish you through mistaken wars you have enabled with your cooking pot and laundry pail. You have died bearing daughters who do not know who they are.

Yet in your deepest dreams the battle songs of Miriam and Deborah still sing.
“Horses and chariots are no match for my God”

There was nothing wrong with that feeling you felt on Friday night, my dear. You were hardwired to crave it, seek it, fight for it and revel in it. But oh, my sister, my mother, my daughter, you have settled for a pale echo of the truth.

Give it a thought now, before we settle into the cookies and the glass balls and the laughter of children. Any maybe on this New Year, you might want to sing a new song, and laugh a new laugh, and look your true enemy in the eye and let him see that you see him, clearly. Let him see that flash in your eye. Scare the Hell out of him, I tell you it will.

“Get the claymore out of the thatch where you hid it Molly.”

Vini… Vidi… Vi – effin – Ci

Comments:
As usually seems to be the case, you gave me a lot to think about with this one. It challenges my view of self and my view of femmininity. It reminds me there is a lot more power within and that I and my sisters are greater than evil. Thank you.

I do have a few questions:
Who are Scheherezade and Boudica? And where are “Get the claymore out of the thatch where you hid it Molly.” "Vini… Vidi… Vi – effin – Ci" from? I have been wondering...
 
Since reading this, the image of Mary with the serpent crushed under her feet has stuck with me. It has given me a little more light as I make my way in the inner city school where I teach. Thanks.
 
Dear SKH, what better do I have to do than to keep smart young women thinking?

I am tempted to say that your wiki button works as well as mine, you could have had those two looked up by now, but I will humor you.

Scheherezade is a fabled queen of the ancient east. The king got mad at his first wife for cheating on him and held enough of a grudge so as to marry some poor girl and then have her head taken off the next morning as adultery prevention. He would then marry again the next night. he was running through pretty young things really quickly. Our bright, beautiful young Queen S, saved her life by telling him a really good story with a cliffhanger, so he had to spare her life to get the rest of the story. She did this for 1000 nights, and was then pardoned. Thus the 1000 Arabian Nights

Boudica (or Bodicea to the victorians) was Queen of Northuberland Briton in the 1st century AD. Her husband died and willed his vassilage to Rome to her and their two daughters. The Romans did not honor female inheritance and subjicated her kingdom outright. So She and her daughters personally led the army and attacked the Romans and burnt Londinium to the ground.

My Scottish highland forbears would often hide weapons from the British in the thatch of their cottages.

Vini Vidi Vici is what Julius Ceasar had to say about crossing the Rubicon. I came, I saw, I conquered. I modified it a bit.

Truley pleased I was to get that reference to a vulgarity up on UPI! HA!

so thus ends the lesson.
 
Peggy, Thank you for the lesson. I appreciate you taking the time among "better things" to enlighten this now smarter young woman as to the references you used. I have heard some of these stories, but "have just forgotten their meaning, and failed at their application."

Sarah

BTW, I would bet a heck of a lot that you are a descendant of Boudica.
 
This explains a lot about why for all of my adult life I have craved stories of stong women, why I secretly watched Xena thinking it was unquakerly of me to want to follow her. Wondering if Jesus had been female if I could relate to him better. We have been robbed of strong women's stories.
 
We are, at our heart, a women's culture, Matriarchal. I, a man, feel the rightness of this.

Wasn't the Old Testament, before its male editing, primarily a Matriarchal story? How could it be otherwise? Who moves us forward, but our mothers?? Who teaches us?

Wal-Mart deserves to be pillaged, but the root of our discontent goes way deeper.

Your perspective is appreciated, Sister.

- The Cunning Runt
 
too much fun! I guess I'm a little curious about why you chose to light up the entire horn section at once. They sound great.
You do this kind of thing on Cue, I know that, anyway it's usually why. But Pastor... any sense for why now? No matter. Thanks, Red Molly; I had felt a little cold virus before reading this and now it's gone.
 
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