Letters from the Goddess Examples
by Karen Deal Robinson
Cover art by Zhenille Robinson
This site consists of excerpts from my book Letters from the Goddess. On this page, I give two more examples of the kind of written dialog you may want to try.
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Letters from the Goddess: Examples
I imagine that I'm standing in a ruined temple, with white pillars. Grass is growing in it, and wildflowers. There is a full moon, and lots of stars. In the front of the temple is a statue of Athena, about fifteen feet tall. She has on her helmet, and is carrying a spear and shield. An owl is sitting on her shoulder. Her face is calm and lovely and self-assured. A ray of moonlight falls on her face and brings her to life. She says, "Welcome, daughter. Why have you come?"
I need your calm wisdom and strength in my life. There are monsters that torment me sometimes, monsters named Anger, Anxiety, Gluttony, Self-Pity. I ask you to stand by my side with your spear and your shield. I know that I won't be afraid if you are with me.
Of course I will be with you. I am always ready to help anyone who seeks wisdom and strength. I know you've been having trouble with your doctor; she has the results of your biopsy, and she's promised to call you, but days and weeks have gone by with no call. It's almost certain that means good news, but of course you want to know for sure. You need my help. Strategy has always been my specialty. Here's my advice: the hospital must have copies of your lab results. Legally you are entitled to see them. It's only a five-minute walk away. Put down your pen, call the hospital, and tell them you're coming over to see the results of your biopsy. Then walk over there. Don't take no for an answer. I'll go with you--they won't dare put me off!
I'm writing to you not as the man you were; that's been so covered over by centuries of legend that I don't know who he was. And I'm not writing to the Lord Jesus of the Christians. I'm not sure you were ever that for me, not the way you were for them. I'm writing to you as the heroic, gentle man I loved as a girl.
I see you not as the wild prophet of history who talked about wailing and gnashing of teeth, and not the Lamb who washes us in blood. I see you as the brave and gentle man of my childhood Sunday school, who stood up to the worst the world had to offer, who met pain and death with open arms, and triumphed; not through a convoluted theological miracle, but through courage and love and the miracle of the human spirit.
Thank you for your courage. Thank you for your love. Thank you for your grace and humor and intelligence. Thank you for seeing women as people, and the poor and the lame, for valuing the inherent worth and dignity of all people. Thank you for the power of a spirit that would not be forgotten. You did triumph, no matter what really happened in that garden. That's all that ever mattered to me about your story. Not sin and salvation and redeeming blood. None of that ever made any sense to me. All that really mattered was that you triumphed after all.
I'm sorry I didn't speak to you the way you wanted me to when you were a girl. Or so you thought. But didn't I come to life in the songs you wrote? Remember "Seder Lullabye", the song you wrote about the Last Supper, when you were sixteen?
"Shalom," he told them, "hush little children,
Don't worry, the night is falling, I know.
Hush, little children, I'm holding your hands,
So don't be afraid of the dark."
It's you I'm singing to. I'm holding your hand, so don't be afraid of the dark. Didn't I say "Why do you call me good? No man is good." Not even me. We all struggle with the dark. Don't be afraid. Remember the lost sheep and the prodigal son. You don't have to be good to be cherished. Just keep trying. There's plenty of love.
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copyright 2002 by Karen Deal Robinson
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