When pigs fly and hens have teeth

The world belongs to men. Nothing is created by woman’s hand alone; we delude ourselves if we see power where there is only co-operation. Our voices are heard (sometimes) with condescension, listened to with moderation (or not) as long as they are mild, undemanding, non-confrontational. When we raise our voices and our fists, we are condemned for unnatural, traitors to our femininity.

Because the world is the work of man. The role of woman is helpmeet. Even the name is a ghost word. We have never been equal in consideration and opportunity, except in the deep past, before humankind became mankind became conquerors. We are ghosts of that deep past, and we have the moon in our blood.

Perhaps that is why men are so obsessed with the moon. Not with its beauty, its mystery, not to understand and observe its influence on the natural world, but to claim, conquer, own. The moon, like a woman’s body, is a battleground, to be fought over, carried off as a prize by the victor, so the war can continue in the manly blood of the Red Planet.

Perhaps children, born of women, whose tides are drawn up and released by the moon, are also drops of the moon, tears shed for the world held in the silvery waters of the womb, that is now closed to them. Only when we cease to glorify brute force, aggression and unwavering ignorance, equating compassion with weakness and sharing with theft, will the world of the moon and the moon’s children return.