being in the sometimes awkward place of serving a death goddess, I'm well aware of unorthodox acts committed out of compassion - namely, killing. and thus it occurs to me that all acts can be performed out of compassion. somewhere I know, there is a sacred whore. I have done Her work before. I know other priestess who have too. I don't know why it's such a revelation, but I see Her in a new light now. a lot of which I am sure, I owe to Jacqueline Carey. but back to the holy whore.
somewhere in Okinawa, in the Philippines, in Thailand... and Amsterdam and Vegas I am sure, She walks the streets; a little young in body, lithe of figure, with the world's oldest eyes. She gives succor to the grieving, the loveless, the lost. She lurks in alleys and is receptacle of violence that one more schoolgirl might make it home unscathed. Her love is that profound.
and I think that is what frightened and angered me last night, and perhaps even contributed to my panic attack today. somewhere out there are priestesses, nuns, dryads, dakini (call them what you like) who serve Her will. in the most sacred of acts, somewhere there exists a woman strong enough to willingly be raped that another might not suffer.