All women make altars - consciously or unconsciously.
I once met a woman through Airbnb who had constructed a bathroom altar to her god, bleach, and even as my stomach wanted to reject the Jack Daniel's and cokes I had drunk, my sense of the sacred held back my vomit. I instinctively knew it would be a violation to empty my stomach in front of this lovingly arranged display. I only knew that I couldn’t do it - later I realised it was because I felt it would profane her altar. I did not know you could control certain bodily functions until that day, and it was a revelation to me.
I have been reading about Hebrew priestesses, to understand why my heart sings the songs it does, relearning what was passed to me through mitochondrial strands instead of whispered at the feet of my elders.
The role of the Jewish woman is one of shrinekeeper, the home as sacred, “living in a shrine of your own making”. One of the gifts I received from trauma was the need to deliberately create beauty, to be my own shrinekeeper, the well maiden offering art as sustenance to weary travellers.
Our mothers had altars. My mother, vials of perfume. Evelyn Rose, for anointing the priestess of the home. Wrists, behind the ears, kissed by flowers and embodying that blessing throughout the day as dishes are washed and children tended.
The jewellery box inlaid with mother of pearl, our small fingers turning over the familiar items as we bargained with the death crone for our share of the treasure. “When mum dies one day, I’m having the opal ring” I remember saying confidently. It glowed like the moon in its silver setting.
One thing I have found difficult recently is deconstructing altars that hold the memory of who I was, that have held space for me. Even as I make new altars that bring me joy and hold the intentions of who I am becoming, seeing the empty space left by hours of incense, chanting and prayer feels like walking through a graveyard.
I said to my mother this morning what a relief it is to cry, to feel so much, after years of numbing. To leave something beautiful for something beautiful is poignant, a privilege.
One of my close friends told somebody she was dating about my wishes for after my death. I had informed her that all my dear friends can choose a Virgin from my home to keep. Then, I told her, she could make an altar if she wished, and if she included a photograph of me she could light a candle to get my attention - it was my intention to continue being a helpful friend in the afterlife.
“Ask me for help with anything” I assured her, thinking of my friend Sally who had passed over a few years previously and is continuing her doula work on the other side. She is a great comfort and help to me.
“Jenny is a weird friend.” her man had replied.
I don’t mind. I send my words out in the hope they resonate with just one person “with eyes to see and ears to hear.”
Ahava and blessings
Jenny xxx
