Moldavite and powerful women in the periphery

I just ordered a small chunk of moldavite. Moldavite is (according to Wikipedia) “a forest green, olive green or blue greenish vitreous silica projectile rock formed by a meteorite impact probably in southern Germany (Nördlinger Ries Crater) that occurred about 15 million years ago. It is a type of tektite.” Geology.com describes it a bit more poetically as “a unique extraterrestrial gem. It formed in the heat of an asteroid impact about 15 million years ago.”

I’m not “into” crystals and have very little understanding of them, but I adore Alea Lovely, host of the podcast Spiritual Shit, and she expounds on the myriad potential positive qualities of this rare tektite. I’ll honestly try just about anything at this point in my journey, but since limited funds insist on fiscal conservancy, I just ordered a little sliver chunk. I figure a little sliver chunk should be sufficient, given its inherent concentrated power.

I know a few people like this. Due to normal life circumstances, they are more acquaintances than friends, but the limited time I’ve been exposed to them affects me powerfully. Dana, who fits this description, has had way more impact on me than makes sense. Her concise response to a desperate text I sent several months ago provided immediate insight and relief and still comforts me. A simple comment to a facebook post has done the same. “She’s next level,” says our mutual friend Ryan. And anyone who knows her would understand this statement. I want to fight for justice and stand up for the oppressed and enjoy life as big as possible when I’m around her. She inspires that in a person.

Another person I’m fortunate enough to have in the periphery is Ciona. Being in her presence is like being in a lush glen or a grove of young trees. I feel calmed down and peaceful. I want to be a kind, thoughtful person when I’m around her. She inspires that in a person. Naturally, she’s a poet. And the poem I want to share today is hers. It was recently published in The Nashville Scene with a lovely illustration by Rachel Briggs. It gave me goosebumps and made my eyes water. Not only is it rhythmically brilliant, it also speaks beautifully to the common societal issue of body-acceptance that I am (and most of my friends are) still confronting. It makes me want to overcome.

 

“Eat” by Ciona Rouse

I eat an apple and

           each crunch treats my ear 

 

to a beat, like the bellydance drum solos 

           I become, feathers and coins on my hips

 

to create a space in my body

           for honoring my folds and pleats. 

 

In high school I could never feather

           as a cheerleader, always the base beneath

 

flying some great tiny gal to heaven.

           Your job is threatening your uniform

 

my coach bleated at me because I worked

           at a bakery, and, yes, I’d cheat myself

 

some chocolate pleasures. I hid in sweatshirts

           consumed salads for lunch, hold the meat

 

and I woke at 5 am to sweat.

           Repeat.

 

I hid in the back of the theater alone

           like a heathen on Sunday repenting in the last pew

 

fingers buttered with popcorn and defeat.

           But now the drum permeates my skin

 

becomes my blood and breath,

           my body defies lineation

 

swirling, turning like electric weather

           bumping my heat against the air

 

my arms, snake-like creatures

           beckon rhythm, hips wreathing.

 

The downbeat teaches me to drop

           into this body, my cellular caveat: stop

 

the dieting. With each breath 

           already one sigh closer to death,

 

why cling to a word so sheathed in 

           die? Emancipate from skinny ideations

 

and eat.