very
simple and profound way of effecting positive change for the next generation.
Get off your ass and do it.
If Pippi Longstocking were the nation’s covergirl, rest assured that women would have
a superlative role model in the fine science of accepting ourselves. Ms. Longstocking
is extremely outspoken in response to negative social beliefs:
[T]he children came to a perfume shop. In the show window was a large jar of freckle
salve, and beside the jar was a sign which read: DO YOU SUFFER FROM FRECKLES?
“What does the sign say?” asked Pippi. She couldn’t read very well because she didn’t
want to go to school as other children did.
“It says, ‘Do you suffer from freckles?’” said Annika.
“Does it indeed?” said Pippi thoughtfully. “Well, a civil question deserves a civil
answer. Let’s go in.”
She opened the door and entered the shop, closely followed by Tommy and Annika. An
elderly lady stood back of the counter. Pippi went right up to her.
“No!” she said decidedly.
“What is it you want?” asked the lady.
“No,” said Pippi once more.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” said the lady.
“No, I don’t suffer from freckles,” said Pippi.
Then the lady understood but she took one look at Pippi and burst out, “But, my dear
child, your whole face is covered with freckles!”
“I know it,” said Pippi, “but I don’t suffer from them. I love them. Good morning.”
(Lindgren, 1970, 18-19)
Unfortunately, Pippi Longstocking is not the nation’s covergirl.
All the way through my teens and into my twenties, I loathed my period. “Menstruation”
was synonymous with unmitigated physical pain on a monthly basis.
But then I got to thinkin’.
Maybe because I was in college, and what are you supposed to do in college if not
think? Maybe because I noticed a marked difference in the way women reacted toward
menstruation at this point in human development. Maybe because for the first time
in my life, I found myself surrounded by women who were greatly intrigued by the workings
of our bodies. Maybe because by the time I went to college I’d taken enough psychotropic
plant forms to feel more or less At One with the Universe, instead of lost at sea
in the swimmingly fetching cultural milieu I’d previously more or less accepted as
reality.
During this period of thinking, I read books and watched the moon.
All women throughout time have had the opportunity to see the moon. From Africa and Asia to the Americas and Europe, plenty of these
ladies started noticing that the moon grows, recedes and grows again, over and over
every twenty-eight days. Those not detached from their menstrual cycle couldn’t help
but trip out on how their own blood rhythm also occurred over the span of approximately
twenty-eight days.
This is how the moon links one up with a form of history none of the textbooks can
possibly touch upon: a psychic history with all the women who’ve ever bled on this planet.
By reading some books, investing in a lunar calendar and poking my head out the window
every night or so, I figured out how to tell time by the moon. I learned her phases
and moods. The springtime full moon has a much different luminescence than the autumntime
full moon. When I went to a party on a dark moon, I generally had a shitty time. When
I went to a party during the moon’s waxing phase, or better, when it was full, I had
a whopping good time.
And on and on.
Soon after me and the moon got to be buddies, the strangest thing happened. The simple
act of hanging with the moon invoked beliefs my brain had never computed before. Suddenly, all the
period propaganda shoved down my throat since that fateful day in sixth grade was
far away and beyond ridiculous.
Lo and behold, my period stopped hurting!
I designated the first day of my blood a Special Time where I consciously guarded
my quiet. I soaked in mineral salted baths,
simple and profound way of effecting positive change for the next generation.
Get off your ass and do it.
If Pippi Longstocking were the nation’s covergirl, rest assured that women would have
a superlative role model in the fine science of accepting ourselves. Ms. Longstocking
is extremely outspoken in response to negative social beliefs:
[T]he children came to a perfume shop. In the show window was a large jar of freckle
salve, and beside the jar was a sign which read: DO YOU SUFFER FROM FRECKLES?
“What does the sign say?” asked Pippi. She couldn’t read very well because she didn’t
want to go to school as other children did.
“It says, ‘Do you suffer from freckles?’” said Annika.
“Does it indeed?” said Pippi thoughtfully. “Well, a civil question deserves a civil
answer. Let’s go in.”
She opened the door and entered the shop, closely followed by Tommy and Annika. An
elderly lady stood back of the counter. Pippi went right up to her.
“No!” she said decidedly.
“What is it you want?” asked the lady.
“No,” said Pippi once more.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” said the lady.
“No, I don’t suffer from freckles,” said Pippi.
Then the lady understood but she took one look at Pippi and burst out, “But, my dear
child, your whole face is covered with freckles!”
“I know it,” said Pippi, “but I don’t suffer from them. I love them. Good morning.”
(Lindgren, 1970, 18-19)
Unfortunately, Pippi Longstocking is not the nation’s covergirl.
All the way through my teens and into my twenties, I loathed my period. “Menstruation”
was synonymous with unmitigated physical pain on a monthly basis.
But then I got to thinkin’.
Maybe because I was in college, and what are you supposed to do in college if not
think? Maybe because I noticed a marked difference in the way women reacted toward
menstruation at this point in human development. Maybe because for the first time
in my life, I found myself surrounded by women who were greatly intrigued by the workings
of our bodies. Maybe because by the time I went to college I’d taken enough psychotropic
plant forms to feel more or less At One with the Universe, instead of lost at sea
in the swimmingly fetching cultural milieu I’d previously more or less accepted as
reality.
During this period of thinking, I read books and watched the moon.
All women throughout time have had the opportunity to see the moon. From Africa and Asia to the Americas and Europe, plenty of these
ladies started noticing that the moon grows, recedes and grows again, over and over
every twenty-eight days. Those not detached from their menstrual cycle couldn’t help
but trip out on how their own blood rhythm also occurred over the span of approximately
twenty-eight days.
This is how the moon links one up with a form of history none of the textbooks can
possibly touch upon: a psychic history with all the women who’ve ever bled on this planet.
By reading some books, investing in a lunar calendar and poking my head out the window
every night or so, I figured out how to tell time by the moon. I learned her phases
and moods. The springtime full moon has a much different luminescence than the autumntime
full moon. When I went to a party on a dark moon, I generally had a shitty time. When
I went to a party during the moon’s waxing phase, or better, when it was full, I had
a whopping good time.
And on and on.
Soon after me and the moon got to be buddies, the strangest thing happened. The simple
act of hanging with the moon invoked beliefs my brain had never computed before. Suddenly, all the
period propaganda shoved down my throat since that fateful day in sixth grade was
far away and beyond ridiculous.
Lo and behold, my period stopped hurting!
I designated the first day of my blood a Special Time where I consciously guarded
my quiet. I soaked in mineral salted baths,
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