Welcome to hell: Being a chemical queen in a world of all-natural goddesses
|I don't know how it is at your house, but at our house, all the plants have names.|
Just on the other side of the wall was my own tangibly created dreamworld of princess accoutrements and lilac- and mint-colored everything. I, too, have a small alter made up of my grandma's cosmetics containers from the '50s, crystals from Sedona, various Catholic tchotchkes and a single naked Kewpie doll. I also have a vanity full of makeup, drag-show posters and stacks of vintage Playboys. My room is just as strange (or not strange) as hers.
As we have continued to cohabitate, I have stopped being so judgmental of her different way of living. I've made some recent changes of my own -- like the attempt to eliminate fake sugar and processed food from my diet -- and started to do something really revolutionary: I listen. Within all of her witchy mysticism that runs far beyond my own comprehension of crystal charging, astrological charts and moon cycles, there is much for me to learn.
The nimble blond medicine woman I live with has absolutely no interest in changing my chemical ways -- she couldn't care less what I put on my face every night (I haven't told her it's Retinol as of late). But she is around whenever I need advice or guidance and gives me special cough remedies made from herbs she grew and dried herself when she was living off the grid somewhere. Basically, all of the judgments I had about my newest witch friend were not only totally unfounded, they were wrong. Because she rules.
I heard her talking today about her dream: to once again live off the land, no electricity or modern "conveniences" crowding her earthen homestead. And she also said she would love to be able to shit in a hole again, free from the clean water-polluting, waste-producing traditions of modern toilet culture.
And to that I said, "I wish I lived in a hotel."