#fiveminutefriday – broken

As with the previous posts – this is part of the Lisa Jo Baker Five Minute Friday blog project.

I have five minutes to write continuously based on a single prompt each week. No editing, no rewriting, just from brain to paper (sort of).

This week’s prompt is ‘broken’.

GO:

It’s Easter weekend and people around me are getting very into the ‘real’ meaning of Easter. We even bought the kids ‘real’ Easter eggs. I felt a bit vindicated filling them with chocolate this way.

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Except I’m inclined to feel that actually, the whole torturing a man to death thing is not really symbolized by eggs and bunnies. These are two separate stories.

Across the globe, there are many goddesses in history that were worshipped for their links to fertility. Even the word ‘Easter’ is most likely linked to the Goddess ‘Ichtar’ who brought her son back from the dead by her tears through the spring leaves (sounding familiar?). In the UK, prior to the Romans, there were many religions, several of which involved goddesses of nature and fertility. One in particular was Damara, who was linked with spring and her protection of children and fertility. The May bank holiday where children are still encouraged to scatter flowers and dance around Maypoles is intrinsically linked to her. The scattering or gifting of floral wreaths was specifically to ask her blessing on those to whom the floral gifts were given. This is one of the many reasons that the tradition of May Day celebrations in quaint Christian villages throughout the UK never fails to raise an eyebrow. That and Morris dancing – men with bells on bashing each other with sticks is odd in anyone’s books.

Spring is a time to contemplate the fertility of nature, and perhaps ourselves. Which means for some accepting that our own fertility has passed. This was something which I was required to do at the age of 29 after my body again rejected our final efforts at creating new life. My body was officially broken. Since that point, I have generally avoided the joyful postings of scan and birth pictures on social networks and laughed off the questions of whether we want ‘any more’ – if only because replying ‘I’d love to, but my uterus kept killing them off’ just doesn’t help make friends.

Interestingly, my closest friend appears to produce babies like sausages, then thrusts them into my arms when they are minutes old, causing not a single pang of pain. Possibly because I love her kids like my own (although, and I know you’re reading this, that is not an offer of babysitting the whole tribe!)

I have two beautiful girls, and I thank whatever deity is keeping them happy and healthy, but I will forever wonder what the other faces would have looked like.

STOP.

Ok, that was a bit longer than five minutes, and a little more personal than my cake explosion from earlier. I’ve shared and now the frog can move on.

Ribbit.

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