The Book of She


The air is moist and hot.  Dark too, and the fleshy ground on which She walks is pliant and giving.  She traverses slowly, peacefully; doing Her rounds for the day, making certain all is well in the Motherhouse, and preparing Her armor for the challenges that lie ahead.

A peaceful valley spreads out before Her, no longer the inconstant gulf of its youth, but the firm terra of years and wisdom.  She inspects the wall of the Motherhouse, analyzing the crust that has been built upon it over years, trophies from its many hard-won triumphs.  Every day the crust grows denser, and begins to crystallize and gleam like a brilliant, shimmering, blinding crystal mine.  And with each new battle the outside forces have heaped up the Motherhouse, it has become a mighty fortress, and She, the mightiest of all warriors.

She walks about, making certain every bit of armor is ready for the pouncing of the Enemy.  And Her soldiers are readied.  Roll call.

The Heart is a vessel of love, vibrantly red and pumping.  Alive and unravaged, despite its many struggles to be broken.

The Stomach is a cavity of steely strength and power, fueling itself against weakness and the menace of ulcerated stress.

Millions of Blood Cells divide and multiply, to double and triple and quadruple the power of the army, so great is the number.

The Lungs are a lusty pair, who expand and constrict greedily, to stock up on vigorous oxygen, which gives them brawn and vitality and sway.  And too much is never enough for the omnivorous duo.

The Brain is a pulsating, gyrating, exploding, imploding, dazzle of a soldier, whose most potent vitamin is the threat of harm by outside forces.  It welcomes harm, for through its sagacity does it twist and bend and break harm and send it back to the Enemy in a ribboned box.

Even the Muscles, Fibers, Sinews, and Ligaments offer their humble share to ward off the enemy, and are hailed at the Mount along with their mightier counterparts.

And the soldiers are ready for battle, led by their Illustrious Leader, the Infinite Soul, Who readies Her own Self for the coming crusade.

Thus, war begins.  As war always will.

The Enemy approaches, and strikes tremendous blows.  It strikes again and again, stronger and stronger.  Its force is colossal, and It, of course, and artlessly, has tradition on Its side.  Its objective is to take command of the Motherhouse, and to usurp the crown.  Power.  Always.

Damage is being done to the outside wall, though it fights back with the help of Muscle and Mind.  Still, it begins to crumble, as the soldiers inside strap on their best weapons and prepare for tactical maneuvers.

She runs throughout the Motherhouse, shouting orders to the troops to brace themselves, and they all shake from their foundation under the weight of the Enemy’s battering ram, violently wielded against the Motherhouse doors, but regain their footing quickly, so remarkably prepared are they for the invasion.

Might is the Enemy’s.  And might usually wins the battle outside.  And to give a sign to the soldiers inside that the wall is crumbling, that the battle is being lost, the mouth of the Motherhouse opens wide, like an all-engulfing tidal wave, and screams and curses and warns.

And She, the Commander, the Soul of the Motherhouse, straps on Her own weapon, which is spirit, and stands at the door that is being violently done in by the Enemy’s battering ram.  And as it breaks forth and tries to enter the House, She speaks in great volume, directing Her promise as much to the Motherhouse, itself, as to the Enemy.

“Fear not for us, but fear us.  We are unmoved.”

And all who stand behind the Soul of the Motherhouse, who are Her devoted battalion, bring forth their own weapons and echo in support:

“Fear not for us, but fear us.  We are unmoved.”

Might may be the Enemy’s, but will is the Soul’s.  And though the Enemy has violated the army’s blessed temple, though the Motherhouse has suffered injury to its fortress wall, the battering ram, which is the Enemy’s only weapon, can get no farther than merely beyond the doorstep.  It cannot enter the House, cannot traverse its ground any deeper than the gateway.  For She stands in its path, magnificent warrior that She is, and stands it down, dares it to come closer, farther inside.  But it only recoils, as its operatives, in fear, abandon it and let it crash to the ground, running back to their Leader, claiming defeat.

She looks upon the shattered ram, and with Her great breath, blows its dust to the winds.

And she turns to the Motherhouse, which has been sorely bested and crushed from the battle, and gently soothes its crown with Her touch.  Calms its ear with Her offering.

“Walls can be rebuilt.  Bricks, mortar, wood, and stone are easy to come by.  But within, you have a strong army.  We will always keep you standing and vigilant.”

She carefully examines the wall, and though it has been bested, She smiles, for its ramparts have indeed grown denser and stronger with the shimmering crust, which has already begun to multiply itself, as it does after every battle.

So, the Soul remains unbudged, and ultimately triumphant.  And the Heart and Mind are Her greatest allies.








Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.



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