Eve, Mother of All

A woman is a rock. A stalwart barrier against the raging sea that beats upon her skirts. No. A woman is the sea itself. The very blood that flows between the cells of the world body and fills the cracks betwixt the void and the forever beyond. Fills it. Supports it. Surrounds it. Uplifts it. Commands it. And gives it strength. It is she who stands between calamity and chaos, the madness and the insanity, and demands order.  She who says, “Let there be!”

A woman is life. And death.

The woman is the storm and the tumult. The hurricane and the terror. The power that builds civilizations. The gentle touch that distracts a war. Or starts one. To an unknown end. The dowager hand behind every throne. The gentle touch upon the cradle. The waterspout that devours ships. The spring that builds, builds again, gushes forth in abundance, gives birth to civilizations, then dies, and rebuilds them once more. Anon and forever. And the Charybdis that consumes all ships that pass, never to pass again. And the peace that lingers in the shreds and tatters of the agony that remain in the aftermath of the words that are spoken and the worlds that are ended in the death of an age. And the birth of another after that. And the peace that remains in the interim. Untold centuries of quiet and wellbeing. The village of peace and matriarchy. In all such sustaining humanity, she remains.

The woman is the beginning. And the ending.

A woman is. Tenderness itself. Laughter. And a bit of irony. A touch of fear. And freedom. And all that can be. The memory of all that once was. Was, is now again, and will be ever so more in the future. A woman is constancy. A woman is certainty. But never predictability.

A woman is life.