In many ways, I’ve thought of the myriad Holy Women Icons I’ve painted as mediators, guides who accompany us, women who have shown us the way. Whether they enliven us to create, inspire us to sustain, or embolden us to empower, these holy women have taught me to rage, praise, hope, endure, persist, love, and laugh. Recently, though, I discovered that none of the Holy Women Icons I’ve researched, written about, or painted have helped me to grieve. Surely, many have experienced grief, or give us tools for coping with the grieving process, but no Goddesses of Grief filled my heart when I needed it most.
Last month, amidst my worries about walls and bans and words that exclude, grief came along and sucker punched me in such a way that I continue to grasp for mediators, guides, and ways to cope amidst tremendous sadness. On March 6, 2017 my little brother, Carl, died. An addict for much of his adulthood, his recent addiction began spiraling out of control over a year ago and he refused to go to rehab. My family worked hard to try and reach out to him, to open him up, to offer him support, but he refused to let anyone in, drowning his anguish in blackouts and overdoses. Though we filled his life with tremendous love, he also experienced pain—externally and internally—that he never shared with anyone. The drug of choice for the past year—duster—runs the risk of cutting off the oxygen to the brain every time it is used; in fact, there are instances of people dying the first time using duster. And this is precisely what happened when my mother found my brother. My beloved single-mom, Mary, became Our Lady of Sorrows, as she held the lifeless body of her 33 year-old son. Our lives will never be the same and the grief is overwhelming. Continue reading “Painting a Goddess of Grief by Angela Yarber”
Feminism and Religion 