Update about blog

August 8th sunset over Hogback Ridge and Heron Peak. Durango CO with air quality warnings of "ozone" or possibly smoke from wildfires. I kept the windows closed.
Showing posts with label Sophie Strand. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sophie Strand. Show all posts

Thursday, January 22, 2026

Aphrodite as non-binary

 Non-binary

Dualistic goddesses/gods

And yes, a link to Lynn Margolis' work as described yesterday.



Portions of substack article by Sophie Strand


"Aphrodite, as the syncretic Greek version of the older Sumerian and Babylonian Astarte and Inanna, has never been a strictly female goddess. They have always occupied a place that, using the lens of queer theory, we can now label as somewhere between trans, non-binary, and intersex. Of course, each of these identities is quite distinct from the other. To be born intersex is NOT to be trans. To be trans is not to be non-binary. This terminology is modern and was not available 4,000 years ago when the female poet Enheduanna was composing the first poems to one of Aphrodite’s earliest avatars: Inanna. No one in the ancient world would have recognized these terms. But that does not mean that what they denote did not exist. This does not mean that in the ancient world where Aphrodite was worshipped and updated for thousands of years, gender – sacred and secular – was simplistically binary. In fact, archeological, textual, and iconographic evidence suggest that it may have been quite fluid.

"Although Aphrodite is a late addition to the Greek Olympic pantheon (popping up around the 8th century BCE with one of her first mentions by Homer in the Iliad) this is not because they are a latecomer. In fact the worship of Aphrodite may predate the Olympic pantheon by several thousand years. Scholars have widely agreed that Aphrodite is a development of older love goddesses who share dominion of love, beauty, adornment, marriage, procreation, doves, the sea, and warfare. If myths are like mushrooms, above ground fruit that only superficially look like individuals, while originating from a larger fungal system below ground, then Aphrodite is a “mushroom” of a much deeper mythic mycelium. One that dates back at least 4,000 years to the eastern Semitic goddess Astarte and then, on the same rhizomatic continuity, to the Sumerian goddess Inanna, associated with early city of Uruk and the Mesopotamian Ishtar. Variations of this love goddess are inherited and adapted by the Assyrians, the Babylonians, and the Phoenicians. As happens with popular gods and goddesses, they are too popular to erase. Instead they must be syncretized and translated into new pantheons.

"As the Sumerian goddess of love, justice, war, and procreation Inanna, we can see behind the bad paintjob of stable femininity. Inanna is no simpering goddess. In some of the earliest written poetry in the world, composed by the Akkadian high priestess of the moon of the city of Ur Enheduanna somewhere between 2285 and 22250 BCE, we hear Inanna called the “goddess of fearsome power”. Enheduanna writes: “ To destroy, to create, to tear out, to establish are yours, Inanna. To turn a man into a woman and a woman into a man are yours, Inanna.” Similar to Innana, we are told in the Babylonian Epic of Erra that the goddess Ishtar’s priestly retinue is composed of kurgarra and assinu “whose maleness Ishtar turned to female, for the awe of the people.” Innana’s servants were also sacred in that they had been “turned” by her. This was no curse. It was the ultimate divine blessing. For thousands of years Innana’s worship was presided over by a class of priestesses called “Gala” who were, for all modern terminology, identified somewhere between trans and non-binary. Men would “become” women and live as women in their role as a priestess of Inanna. They were seen as particularly “potent” beings – transcending binaries. They could undo evil, heal the sick, channel prophecy, and it was considered especially good luck to have sex with a member of the Gala according to an Akkadian omen text.



"This to me is the great gift of the goddess. Not to change you into the opposite gender, once again fully legible, but to place you in the fertile realm of blended “bothness” where you had the ability to adapt, change, and draw wisdom from multiple nodes of experience. Inanna themselves refuses to be fully defined. And isn’t that what it means to be a deity? To transcend? To transform? To transition? To live interstitially, inside the intelligence of relationships, rather than in the limited perspective of a circumscribed identity. Nowhere does this seem better demonstrated than in the early cult of Aphrodite, worshipped on the island of Cyprus. The Aphrodite of Cyprus is fully both, most often depicted smiling coyly with their skirts raised to reveal an erect phallus.

"The legend goes, according to Hesiod’s theogony, that Aphrodite was born from a profound “mixing”. This not heterosexual copulation. Instead her father Uranus’ testicles are severed and thrown into the ocean. Blood, semen, and seawater churn into a opalescent foam, and from this something equally mixed and indefinable is born: Aphrodite of Cyprus. Contemporaneous reports of Aphrodite’s worship tell us that they were worshipped by festivals of societal inversion, similar to the Twelfth night festivities of medieval Europe.



"As I have been researching Aphrodite, I’ve been simultaneously reading about the symbiotic origins of multicellular life in the work of biologist Lyn Margulis. One of my favorite ways to write is to pay attention to the moment when two seemingly unrelated passions begin to intertwine and fuse into a fresh narrative. As I’ve been following both of these separate strands I’ve been increasingly aware that Aphrodite, to me, seems less the goddess of human lovemaking, and more the goddess of the symbiotic fusions between species that create biological novelty. Aphrodite presides over a romance that transcends anthropocentrism. Or perhaps predates it. The fusions of simple prokaryotic cells, driven by hunger and desire to connect, to create the complex nucleated cells that build our very bodies today. Margulis describes, “In the great cell symbioses, those of evolutionary moment that led to organelles, the act of mating is, for all practical purposes, forever.” Life is driven by these complicated and surprising “interweavings” that seem to embody Eros without strictly mapping onto a human narrative of copulation. Lovemaking that doesn’t result in a couple. But in a new being entirely.

"It is interesting to note that just as our microorganism ancestors emerged from seawater and made it onto dry land, so does Aphrodite emerge from the ocean, too, one foot in liquid microbial prehistory, the other in solid ground mammalian existence. In her book Symbiotic Planet, Lyn Margulis explains, ““Symbiogenesis was the moon that pulled the tide of life from its oceanic depths to dry land and up into the air.” And if Aphrodite is the moon. Then Aphrodite is the moon of symbiotic mergers. Like meiotic sex, the kind we as humans engage in, must have at some point originated from another simpler form of sex, not involving two genetically different partners, so does Aphrodite emerge not from a heteronormative conjugal act, but from a splicing off, an accidental castration. They spring from the spermal foam of their father’s castrated member. The goddess of divine lovemaking comes from an act that is more anarchic than sexual fusion. It harkens back to those prebiotic days, greasy lipid bubbles accidentally sequestering polymers and chemical reactions, before dehydrating and breaking open, releasing matter. In and out. Academic and Neuroscientists Terrence Deacon and biologist Lyn Margulis both muse that it was these early “grease bubbles” that first imitated the semi-porous container of a cell. For life is, at its most basic, a cell. A semi-permeable container that constitutes difference: inside and outside. Self and environment. How these bubbles became sentient and began to self-replicate, how they eventually integrated into multicellular beings capable of terraforming the earth, is another problem entirely. But at its most basic we can think of Aphrodite as being the exultant, non-sexual offspring, of one of these early cells rupturing and reproducing accidentally as it accommodates shifting climatological pressures.



"Aphrodite seems to me to be a useful deity for moments of transition: personal, political, and ecological. The fiction of a stable identity will not save us in a moment of climate collapse and mass extinction. The idea of a stable species is fictional if you look through a wide enough lens. We are always adapting, evolving, changing, fitting into shifting ecological niches. And the most useful tool we may have moving forward may be that of “bothness”. Of liminality. Of being able to fuse and merge and embody multiplicities.

Source: "Aphrodite Beyond BinariesSaint of Symbiogenesis" by Sophie Strand, Make Me Good Soil, Jan 16, 2026

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Gender identity has become quite interesting these days, and yet it makes many people uncomfortable to consider, to talk about, and respect those who have chosen non-binary self-identities. 
I like to think that each person has a unique way of loving on this earth, and no matter how they identify or choose who they cherish, that is the fundamental best thing that humanity has to offer. Just one elder woman's opinion here.


Monday, October 20, 2025

More of the Parkway trip

 Just have been editing more of the photos...I think we're down to just 55. I'll cull the ones that all look at the same feature, and wish I had a good way to decide which one is the best choice. I'll just close my eyes...nah, that wouldn't quite work!

There indeed were no more turnoffs on the way to Mt. Mitchell, which is a NC State Park, the highest mountain east of the Mississippi.





Fortunately we could slowly drive while I put my window down and caught these views of Burnett Reservoir. They really need to have an overlook here, but they say this is part of the Asheville Watershed, which means any oils etc will slowly wash down into the reservoir. Thus no overlooks provided.



You'll notice we were beginning to get fir trees (evergreens) interspersed with the deciduous trees, which are not giving great colors even at high elevations. I decided this is a golden autumn.


Just look at the tree dispersal on that hill just past the entrance to the state park. And right around that corner the Parkway has a huge fence stopping further travel.



We climbed the mountain in the car, and noticed once again there were some clouds toying with the highest areas.

The State Park welcome center was closed, but had some maps posted.

In the past I've hiked the Balsam Nature Trail (before it had the little educational signs installed.) I found a spring off the trail a ways...which was nice, that it was putting out fresh water at 6500 feet above sea level. Never could figure out how that's done.




I wasn't able to find where Stepp's Gap was...probably past the closed part of the Parkway. But Jesse Stepp also lived in Black Mountain, so his family is spoken of in various historical contexts around here.


We persevered, arrived at the parking lot which was really full at the top of Mt. Mitchell. And there were clouds. Even if anyone had been interested in walking the final 400 yards up the rest of the way to the lookout platform, what would have been the point.

Our destination had one thing in it's favor. The Septic tank was being serviced. Of course not such that we could use the rest room, but at least someone soon might. The various snack bar and information places were also locked up tight.




As we drove back down the mountain, we could see more mud slides with scars on the sides of the mountains.


Sorry, a bit too much saturation here...but it also shows that the shoulder was still under construction for part of the way.

OK, there are just a few more I want to share with you...

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Last Saturday on Substack I received this post...  "Your Body is an Ancestor" by Sophie Strand from Make Me Good Soil. <sophiestrand@substack.com>

 It's really an excellent short read, if you wish to pull it up...or subscribe to.



Tuesday, October 7, 2025

Tuesday's Treasures

 Tuesday's Treasures~!



An architect-designed home is being renovated. The previous owner had lived there ever since I moved here (18 years ago) and apparently died in the last year or so.

 And the property now includes a newer home being built as well.




There are several more houses on this street closer to town, one of which is a lawyer's office. And then the local Funeral Home is on the corner of State St. and this road, Dougherty.

At the other end of the street (on that side) are at least 2 B&B's. 

The Red Rocker Inn in summertime.

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Sharing a substack  story:

Make My Healing a Party Everyone Is Invited To

by Sophie Strand from Make Me Good Soil sophiestrand@substack.com


Healing is hard work. Healing takes dedication. Healing takes commitment. Doctor’s offices are private, fluorescent caves. Curtains divide the ill from each other in hospitals. Sickbeds are sterile, singular. Illness is a sign of weakness and must be hidden from sight. It must be managed and defeated. This is the myth that keeps the chronically ill and the disabled trapped within a life-sapping seriousness. If you are unwell, you shouldn’t be having fun. Fun is for healthy people. You should be working hard to get better, to improve, to fix yourself, so you can participate in the fast-paced world of progress again. Most importantly, you shouldn’t detract from our fun with your messy, complicated body. Hide it, hide your pain and struggle. It’s not invited to the party.

When I first got sick, I deferred things. “I’ll have a real birthday celebration when I’m better”. “I’ll go canoe in Canada when this is better”. “I’ll fall in love when I have a little more strength.” Those with serious illness will recognize from their own narratives the day you were hit with the nauseating realization that you won’t be getting better anytime soon. Is it after the tenth experimental drug fails? After the second birthday passes in bed? Is it when you finally receive the shut-door diagnosis? “There is no cure.” I think it happened the second year, hallucinating on steroids, shuttled back and forth to the hospital as I went in and out of life-threatening allergic reactions. The idea that healing happened behind the curtains, all the mess and anguish cloaked, and then you emerged, butterfly vibrant, even better than before, was making me sadder, sicker. What if I was never better enough to emerge? “I have to start living anyway. I have to start laughing. I have to start doing as much as possible with whatever energy, time, juiciness I have available.”

I was done approaching healing as work. It wasn’t even working. It kept me isolated from the laughter, the joy, and the nutritive relationships that I needed to give my immune system an emotional boost. Healing wasn’t going to happen in a backroom. Or even within my own atomized individuality. It needed to be woven into to Everything: to become a single thread in a dazzling tapestry of other stories. Stories of me falling in love. Stories of me hiking and travelling. Baking Bundt cakes. Hosting potluck storytelling gatherings with friends. Lying in a sheath of river water, watching clouds streak across the aquamarine sky. Leaning out of the fire tower at the top of the mountain, tasting the lemony tang of magnolia blossoms wafting up from the valley below.

My friend Mary Evelyn who also suffers from the same genetic illness as me, shared a helpful insight with me. “I’m beginning to understand that health has very little to do with the body. It has very little to do with disease. Health is the amount of joy you feel in your life.”

More and more I also think of healing as being the amount of connections you can feel in your life. The points of interface. The communal interweaving.

Healing for me isn’t a destination or a well body. It is community. Human and more than human.

Years of chronic illness have delivered me to a cautious mistrust of the clean- up approach to wellness. Minimalism reduces danger. But it also reduces pleasure and joy and mess and relationship.

My body is seasonal and relational. It changes as the plants and people and weather systems shift around and through it. Sometimes it need bitter herbs and ascetism. But often it doesn’t benefit from another elimination diet. Another ten day fast. Often is benefits from maximalism and mess. From delicious food shared with loved ones at a table set with beeswax candles and fresh roses. It needs more microbes, more dirt, more hands kneading the communal dough. It needed to touch and to be touched. To embrace. To run full speed downhill. I needed to use my body for love. For dancing. For joy. I needed to prove to my hands, my arms, my feet, my hips, my belly, my breasts, that they are here for more than just pain and for illness. They are here to experience pleasure and movement. They are here to hold babies and dogs. To hold other people’s sorrow.

Many years before Covid, I began a storytelling gathering as part of the final step in an herbal apprenticeship. We were told to make a promise to the earth to honor the gifts it had given us. I promised to create communities of people who shared herbal knowledge and nontraditional medicine that can’t be pressed static as a dried flower into a book or ordered from the pharmacist. Story medicine that needed to be passed in boats of breath overs dinner table oceans of shared offerings. These gatherings showed me that it wasn’t only physical illness that could be softened by embodied joy and community. Emotional distress was also cushioned and alchemized by communal storytelling and food-sharing. Everyone brought a bottle of wine, a passed-down family dish, a subjectivity flavored by their particular ecosystems and experiences. Topics that typically trigger shame and discomfort were allowed to mellow and move held within the ritual of food sharing and friendship. How do you talk about grief? About abortion? About rape? About terminal illness? You talk about it with flowers, with friends, with champagne, with candlelight, with fresh-baked cookies, with bawdy jokes, with grief-sweetened tears that are allowed to fall and flow into another person’s story, another person’s open hands.

I have a new prayer. I don’t want my healing be work and I don’t want it to be private. I don’t want it to benefit only me. I want it to leak. To overflow.

I want my healing to be a lemon-lit living room with the bay window open, bossanova pulsing from the record player, a new couple swaying in the corner, a pair of friends playfully debating on the dilapidated velvet loveseat. Make my healing the kitchen filled with the scent of a roasting chicken, crackle of rosemary, a child come in the backdoor with a handful of daisies, still dangling roots. Make my healing the strangers stepping outside into the orchard, constellations of fireflies fluxing in the shadows, stars stippled across the inky July sky. Let my healing be their easy intimacy, their first fumbling kiss. Make my healing the group of people seated around the fire in the backyard, trading ghost stories, secretly hoping to summon something miraculous from the gloaming. Make my healing a joy that leaks out of my life into the life of all my loved ones, my family members, my friends. Make my healing contagious and outrageous. Make my healing a party everyone is invited to.


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Thank you for such a timely piece! It hit home for this healing person. Joy here I come!