To Hela, Who Owns My Ass

by Raven Kaldera

Sometimes I do not like my Goddess much.

Sometimes, even, my voice is raised

In hatred, in wrath, in despair

And yet, of late, the tiny things come to me,

One at a time, the reasons to be grateful

For serving Her. Of late,

I think on how the sky-Gods, the earth-Gods

Take part in politics between those

Who worship them - either to stir up,

Or to make frith, or to teach lessons,

And drag their reluctant servants

Into the screaming fray. Even Flame-Hair

And some darker others, may ambivalently

Turn their gaze and their workers hence.

Yet Her cold gaze

Is set beyond this; She takes no note of such

Tiny things. Perhaps because so few

Revere Her, the importance of folk is not

Counted by their reverence. She casts Her net

Wide and forward-looking; Her eyes seek

The greater plan, the wider implications.

I ask her of community, and She says:

Community is who comes to you

When you open your door and offer to serve

Any who come. Your people are whoever

It is given to you to aid, regardless

Of whether their necks bear hammers,

Pentacles, crystals, or even crosses.

Build the door and they will come,

And come, and come. Be as limitless

As Death, and beyond. Have no foot wholly

In any place, and many more will

Welcome you. Guard your honor,

Do your work, and care only about that,

But care about that deeply,

With an abiding passion

That burns like hallowed flame.

Yeah, I can do that.

So, Lady. If I must be a pawn

Let it be on a wider stage,

A greater play, with a cast of thousands

And thousands more.

You see, I am finding reasons

To be grateful for my Life

Every difficult day of its telling.