Opening wide. Soft, wet, squishy. Wide-eyed – head up, knuckles white from holding her vulva open for centuries.
Churches crucifix vaginas – the divine masculine and feminine. Unsure where to begin – breath. A first breath, a heartbeat, an eye opens to the light.
How can a vulva be carved of stone – so hard and rough and rugged – opposite to the warmth and comfort we are born from and into.
Living rooms filled with plush pillows, soft blankets and warm to the touch.
A chaotic mix of ancestral trauma – worry, angst, fear and uncertainty.
Visualizing a twisted torment of chemicals flowing through the umbilical cord – like a news clip about covid – spiked atom tumbling with pills with blue and red caps on one end and white on the other. A nurse’s hat from the 50’s or 70’s… eyebrows inverted and rounded down – yet a sad smile folds upwards – only at the edges of the lips – curling a frown with strain and sympathy.
Wrinkled forehead – bright fluorescent lights – squeaky clean plexiglass and the iconic blanket of white with the blue and pink stripes. Small pink fingers and toes – curled tight – waiting to be loved.
where rivers are born 