I kind of imagined a sad, bayou, song filled with redemption and strength when this post popped into my imagination this morning. I have a bunch of hi’falutin’ blog post stickies on my desktop; one involving my own take on miasma and another entitled “Gods and Riddim’” my thoughts on the role dance plays in African American culture and worship (for the Daughters of Eve).

I don’t think the gods care too much about my personal development. Maybe I’m saying that in a way that doesn’t convey what I really mean. I don’t think the gods throw obstacles or challenges in my way to “make me a better person.” I also don’t think they’re going to swoop in and save me from myself, or my requests, when something goes awry.

The best example I have for this belief was a set of life experiences that I walked into wholeheartedly, praying all the way, got bit in the butt and went limping back to point A having realized that maybe I need to stop putting myself in stupid situations.

My former long-term relationship went out with a quiet fizzle. I think we both knew it was time to end things about a year or two before hand, but we held on to each other out of comfort and fear. Single after four years, my self-esteem was shot and I was lonely. One night, as the full moon hung heavy in the summer sky- I beseeched, no begged, Hera for guidance in the matters of marital love.

Flash forward to the end of that summer and I met a young man who convinced me to move to another state to be with him. I, being an idiot, traipsed 500 miles from home intent on starting this new life of ‘perfection.’ I cooked, cleaned, kept house, and attempted to manage, then undiagnosed, manic depressive disorder. He couldn’t deal, lied often, and cheated; nursing various relationships online and with strippers in the area. By the time I found the photos of naked women on his phone I knew it was time to go.

The weekend that we broke up was the first time I prayed, exclusively, to Zeus. On the altar I built atop the mantle of our fireplace I lit a coal and offered honey and olive oil to him asking for something I never quite could put my finger on. Not a quick fix or protection from the pain, but perhaps the strength to endure it. By the time I came back to the Washington D.C. area I had no idea who I was, or where I was going, but I knew where I would never go again.

I don’t think Hera or Zeus had any role in these events, but I do think I was allowed to go down those roads because, as a mortal, screwing up, being broken, and getting back up again is a part of life. I remember, foolishly, thinking I had gotten what I wanted. I felt powerful, sure, confident, and cocky- only to be brought low by my own hubris.

I don’t think these experiences made me a better person, they just made me different; a little more jaded sure, but a hell of a lot more appreciative of the myths and morals my forefathers wrote down.

When I’ve made “deals” with Hermes, I’ve often gotten an M. Night Shayamalan like twist in the end. I think, towards me anyway, that’s his nature. I can make the best panspermia and offer the best sacra and, in the end, it’s never about me growing as a person, but my service to him and me taking a path that requires more wit than I currently have.

My own decisions, my own faults and failings, my bare mortality offered up like a filleted chicken breast. I believe I am expected to live as “righteously” as possible, but no one is going to hold my hand or carry me through. That’s not their job. If they choose to play a role that’s great…at times…but for the most part I’m on my own to become the best human I can be while maintaining piety at the same time.

As I course through what has been one of the most challenging and amazingly love-filled periods of my life, I don’t ask the gods for much. I leave offerings and sometimes my eyes water when I think of them; but my thanks to them doesn’t come from their constant interference in my life but their trust in me to not need them to interfere that much at all.

Advertisement