Wimsey is whimsical. She’s down on all fours, crawling through the jungle.
The strands of her hair are wild, like a lioness. Her bangs are a cub’s. She’s focused on her quarry. Her smile is enigmatic. Her lion teeth are pretty, her lips are adorned with pink—the blood of her prey? Perhaps she’s not a lioness, perhaps a kitty. Come little kitten. Come home with me. I’ll feed you. I’ll pet you. I’ll make nice to you. I’ll give you a warm bed—it doesn’t have to be mine. She’s a lovely woman in a lovely setting.
And speaking of lovely let us adore Thorin, daughter of Thor, God of thunder. Smooth skin and gentle lines do form her. Blue eyes, red lips, blue earrings, red roses, blue necklace, and red highlights of her hair do grace her. Are her lips not made for kissing? Do her ears not draw you, calling for your whispers? Are Thorin’s eyes not for looking into, deeply? Thorin by the water, a cameo of beauty, punctuated by hard rock polished a thousand years to be not near as smooth as she.
What a gorgeous photo of Gem. Look at the colors in it—they’re perfect. The purple of her cape is the same as her nipples, centered within it. The one, two, three brown patches of hair, fur, and sandals—top, middle, bottom—balance in our minds like the moment just before, just before, just before we fall into dark deep paradise. The grays of earth and cracked and weathered wood ground us, their weight holds us, and the color of Gem’s skin and that of scattered leaves match and are restful.
And color is not all, there’s texture too. The pure smooth field of purple drape contrasts with dappled light through scattered leaves, and Gem’s young skin contradicts lines in old lumber.
And then there’s tone: the leaves, the earth, the wood are dark; Gem, in the middle of this composition is middle valued; bright sky and water remind us there is more to the world than Gem, the focus of our obsession.
And let us not deny the erotic. Gem is young and fertile and desirable that way. Her breasts and the dark patch above the entrance to her womb call out: “I am Woman.” And Gem gives us her womanhood. She opens her cloak so we may see her. She bows her head so we may look without the inhibition of her gaze. She acts submissive, but I’ve no doubt were she to choose to mate she’d choose with care, then give herself away. Gem would be a worthy prize in life’s great contest to survive.
Thyme and Sage, I know not which is who, but here are two portraits of two friends, one dark one light. One wonders what paths led these women’s ancestors, from different climes, to cross seas, mountains, and plains so these friends could one day meet.
From where do this woman’s ancestors come? What comes to my mind is South America, but it could as easily be an exotic blend of spices—Burma, Peru, Botswana, and a dash of Inuit from the Arctic.
This photo caught my eye. Red hair falling, in ringlets and curls, eyes and lips peek through. A dot of purple to catch our eyes.
Wow! What a body.
Thyme and Sage, two good friends.
Here are my favorite photos, one for each Goddess, from four recent updates.
Alexia’s photo set is named Frosty Waters. She is shown undressing and standing in a mountain pool surrounded by rocks and vegetation as lush as she is. She sits in the water, first with her skirt on, and we see her yell. The water is icy cold.
Then we see Alexia naked and playful. She splashes her breasts and squeals again. Her nipples respond.
In this photo we see Alexia is a magician—all goddesses are. She holds water in air.
Alexia performing magic
Before she undresses Saba wears a hand dyed shirt, a heart shaped locket, cute red panties, and boots. Looking at her reminded me of an experience I had in an outdoor clothing and equipment store.
I was talking to a young man, a store associate, who was helping me with a purchase. A young woman entered the store, came near us, and began looking over jackets. The woman was an outdoors type of girl and wore a vest and hiking boots. The young man kept looking her way. She was cute, especially in those boots.
I caught the young man’s eye, then looked over at the woman, then back. I said, “I like a woman in boots. Do you?”
My question took him aback, and he had to think for a minute of how he wanted to answer me. Finally, he smiled and said, “I do.”
“I can take care of myself,” I said.
He took the hint and went to help her.
In this next photo Saba is looking at something that caught her attention. I wonder what it is. Is she getting ready to run?
Saba, what does she see?
Serquet wears a long dress that follows the form of her lovely figure. She wears nothing else, and as she undresses she seems calm, self assured, and introspective. She lies on a woven rug, in front of a hearth, and she stretches and shows herself to us. Thank you, Serquet, for sharing your loveliness.
In this next photo Serquet turns inward. I love her eyebrows. They remind me of another time.
Serquet looking inward
I was in Nepal, trekking in the Himalayas. I was in a Tibetan village at an altitude of 12,000 feet. The people were poor, food was scarce, and especially food with vitamin C. Scurvy was evident.
I stayed in the village long enough to for a few people to get to know me, through my actions. We didn’t share a common language. I was invited to a Buddhist prayer service.
People gathered in a small stone building and sat around its perimeter. Prayers were intoned, read off a set of old cards hand lettered in Sanskrit. A brass horn was sounded—it must have been eight feet long—one end rested on the ground.
The Lama, who said the prayers, had the most amazing eyes. They were East Asian in shape, but the amazing thing about them was that the creases at their outer corners went around and around like a ram’s horn. It was hard not to look at them. Other people did not have the same creases, and I wondered if he came from a special Tibetan class.
While I’m on the subject of Tibetans I will also note that Tibetan women do not seem shy. I remember one watching me and smiling and nodding approvingly as I washed myself, bare chested, in 40 degree Fahrenheit air under a fall of icy water pouring into a stream. The Tibetans are the only culture I know of in which woman sometimes take more than one husband. I read that this practice developed out of economic necessity, and it is dying out as the Tibetan standard of living improves.
Storm is clearly a woman, but in this next photo she seems quite girlish. She has a pixie smile, she stands on her bed, and she’s not shy showing us her goofy pillow. She’s not shy about showing us anything, and everything. Hi Storm, nice to meet you.
Storm being girlish
It is with great pleasure that I, a man growing old, look upon you young women, here, in all your splendor and remember the days when I played with naked hippie “chicks” and was a hippie too. Thank you, Goddesses, for sharing intimate views of yourselves. In return I offer the kindly words I write. I hope they are looked upon upon as expressions of respect.
If you check in with this blog from time to time you know I like making up stories about the goddesses, none of whom I have ever met. I look at sets of Dave’s and Emma’s photos until something catches my eye and suggests a tale, and I take off from there.
With Wisdom it was that magnificent old tree and her playful and flirtatious posing. With Amalie, Shanti, and Maia it was beautiful portraits. With Asparte it was the tugboat behind her and knowing that the tug captain would certainly be checking her out with binoculars, which you can’t see in any photo, but which Emma confirmed to be true. With Ripple it was the spirituality evident in her adornment and dance.
Today I came upon Willow, and there is so much that is suggestive in her photos that I could easily have dreamed up a story about her. Instead, I became intrigued in a different way.
Willow’s tale seems to be one in which truth, wherever that lies, is stranger—more interesting—than fiction. Who is this woman?
Look at the wealth and detail of Willow’s tattoos. I’m dying to know what the winged A, or possibly V, on her right wrist stands for, or maybe it’s not a letter at all. Look at the beauty of her forms. Willow is an artist, and her body is her canvas. I am particularly impressed that she decided not to use color in her tattoos. It would have distracted from and diminished the beauty of her designs. Here is a woman with taste.
And Willow doesn’t stop there. She includes three scars in her decorations, and scars like these are not easy to come by, by which I do not mean that they are painful to acquire, though I’m sure they are. What I mean is that there are a variety of methods to scarify, and it takes considerable skill to create scars that are as regular and controlled as Willow’s. I am horrified and fascinated by them, but even though I am shocked I notice how beautifully they meld with the plants that grow around them.
Willow is, clearly, not a woman who does things by halves; she does them by threes or twos, as evidenced by the black rings piercing her labia.
I want to state, explicitly, that I do not show this picture to titillate. If you feel that way so be it—there’s nothing wrong with that—but Willow has made her body a work of art that she takes most seriously, and I think she would want all of her art be seen. She probably has few opportunities to display her life’s work in its entirety.
And if you think you’ve seen it all, guess again. Look at this gloriously tree with its leaves, branches, bark and roots. What incredible detail, and I love the tree’s placement—the clear field upon which it is drawn. The tree is alone, as one sometimes finds in the midst of a farmer’s field. It is a tree that grows with undisturbed majesty.
For completeness I show the back of Willow’s right arm and the plant that grows there, and I admit I’m not oblivious to Willow’s breasts, which are also a delight.
What is this sword? Where did it come from? What does it represent? Why did Willow choose it? I don’t believe its choice was an accident; it must be symbolic. Who is she angry with? What does she want to cut off or to cut herself off from?
There are 1,162 photos of Willow on HippieGoddess, and two things struck me about them. One is that Willow is frequently looking directly at the camera—at her viewers. She communicates that she wants to engage us. I like that.
The second is that in the total collection of over a thousand photographs there are only a few, perhaps only two or three, in which Willow is smiling. I do not draw conclusions from this, but I wonder: is she unhappy, serious, private, or something else?
I searched over a thousand photos to pick a portrait of Willow. A smile would have been uncharacteristic, but I suspect there is more to this woman than is suggested by her single-minded seriousness. Therefore I selected this last photo, in which there is enigma.
Portrait of Willow as Mona Lisa.
There are many goddesses to look at on HippieGoddess, and in fantasy I want to meet many of them. Actually, in fantasy I have. But in real life Willow is my first choice.
This picture story is a work of fiction. I do not know and have never met the real woman herein named Ripple. The story comes entirely from my imagination, which is susceptible to flights of fancy.
What happened to Ripple is shrouded in mystery. What’s known has been garnered from the little she’d say, and from a community of emigrants from north-eastern Sri Lanka who knew she had married a Tamil king, a cultan, the only one ever to have wedded a white woman.
Ripple’s parents were missionaries, and when Ripple was a girl her parents traveled to Ghana to live and spread their faith, and they took Ripple with them. And though many would disagree with their beliefs, none who knew them doubted the intensity of their spirituality. That, Ripple inherited.
Ripple’s parents were killed during the years of corruption and human rights violations following the 1981 Ghanaian coup, and Ripple was brought up, unloved, in an orphanage. When she came of age, but barely, she was sold and taken to a secret auction to be sold again. Though she did not know it, her fate would most likely have been to be taken to Thailand, to be forced into the sex trade, to enrich a set of most evil men, and to die of AIDS. Have no doubt—this happens.
Of all the women, Ripple was one of the lucky ones. In Ghana, women with hair and skin as light as Ripples were rare, and to keep her value high she was not violated, not in the ultimate way, ultimate, that is, discounting death; but she was subjected to degradation that drove most women insane.
Ripple clung, tenuously, to her sanity by transferring the faith of her parents to a deity of her own, a goddess within, and her goddess kept Ripple from going mad. She prevailed, and some say she was lucky a second time, but old women say it was not luck. They say it was the goddess peering through Ripple’s eyes that the Tamil king saw. Then they cackle and add, “It wasn’t only the goddess in her eyes.”
Despite the old women and whatever truth lies in their jests, do not understand the young king too quickly. For he, though a youth, was not a king only by wealth and lineage. He was a king by true right: a king whose subjects had loved his father and loved him, because the king and his father were men who placed honor above power or money, or, in Ripple’s case, above lust or, perhaps, love.
The king had let his hormones and the influence of his older cousin guide him to the slave market, but as soon as he arrived and saw the women in bondage he knew he was engaged in a terrible wrong, and he knew he had, to the best of his ability, to make his wrong, right.
The king decided to buy Ripple, at whatever her price, but the moment she became his possession he risked what he desired most and removed Ripple’s bonds and told her she was free, and that he would send her anywhere she wished to go and never trouble her again, if that was what she wanted. But he also confessed his feelings and told Ripple that he wished her to come with him to see if true love might develop from what he was wise enough to know was, at this point, merely attraction. And he swore to Ripple that if she came with him, neither he, nor any man, would put so much as a finger on her without her permission.
Ripple, young and frightened, agreed. She had nowhere else to go, and she sensed sincerity and kindness in the king, and he was good looking, and she judged that he was a man worthy of, at least, taking a chance. Yes, she was frightened, but not of him.
Ripple flowered into full womanhood and came to love the king, and, despite objections from his clan, the king and Ripple married, and in time a child was born to them.
Those were happy times, but they did not last. Jealousy, money, and power reared their ugliness, and the young king, Ripple’s husband and the father of her child was murdered, and power transferred to his cousin.
Almost nothing is known of what happened next. Whatever it was happened in private quarters, but what is known is that on the night of a full moon the king’s cousin ran, screaming, from the palace and jumped into the sea to be swept away on the ebb of a spring tide. Some say Ripple’s mouth was covered in blood. Other’s say it was only decorations of henna or the chewing of betel nut, but all agree it was that night that Ripple and her child disappeared from the kingdom.
The full truth will never be known—Ripple will not speak of it, but there are clues in the symbols with which she adorns herself and in the rituals she performs in moonlight.
Ripple wears the bindi between her eyes. It is the mark of a married woman. She never forgets that she was married to a king. She is and will always be a queen.
Ripples earrings bear the five-pointed star, the pentangle, of which, in every culture, there is mystical significance. Some say Ripple uses stars in witchcraft. Some speak of earth, air, fire, water, and spirit. Others say Ripple is a reincarnation of the goddess Venus, the morning star. Perhaps it is all of these. I do not presume to know, but one who did, the oldest of the old women, said Ripple used to worship in the five realms of the Buddha: human, godly, hell, hungry ghosts, and demons.
Ripple wears a necklace of cowry shells. They symbolize fertility, birth, and womanhood, and most people interpret them that way. But cowry shells were, long ago, used for trade in Ghana, and the Ghanaian unit of currency, the cedi, derives its name from cowry. Ripple wears these shells not as adornment, but as a chain to mark the cruelty of women being sold into slavery.
Of all her adornment the tilaka, the vertical stripe on her chin, is the most telling. This is a mark reserved for priests, leaders, or others who are revered. It is often worn by warriors, and almost always by men. That Ripple wears a warrior’s symbol, proves to some that she avenged her husband’s death by killing his murderer. Of this Ripple laughs, but her eyes belie her denial.
Ripple begins her annual ritual at noon. None have seen her until now, and many have warned of the wild and fearsome sounds heard in the woods on the nights of Ripple’s remembrance. They say it is not safe to be with her at these times, but Ripple offers flowers to tell those she allowed to record the baring of her soul, not to fear. She signs: you will be safe.
Ripple begins to remember.
As darkness falls she retreats inward.
She meets pain with serenity, and in a trance she recalls her husband, her king.
I can not believe the flower to be anything but the blood of her enemy, the man she killed, the king’s cousin, her husband’s murderer.
Ripple has freed herself of demons.
Day returns and Ripple surfaces.
She is exhausted.
We thank you, Ripple, for allowing us to see you. We mean no disrespect. To look at you is to see a goddess and a queen.
My father died 6 years ago, though I can hardly believe it has been that long. He is rarely out of my thoughts for too long. He was a conservative Democrat who would at times, though rarely, vote Republican. His problem with Republicans of course is they were not conservative enough.
My father had a huge love of the conservative ideology and debating politics for hours was one of our favorite pastimes. As I get older I find myself understanding, though not often sharing completely his way of thinking in politics and I find comfort in that.
He also loved things and people of beauty, both inside and out.
The classic beauty of Domai, Met and other sites like that I am sure he would have been enchanted with. Hippiegoddess, well, I think he would be proud of me, but I think images like this would be more his style
I say my father was a conservative. Perhaps you do not know what I mean, I can understand that. Those wearing that banner today are anything but conservative.
My father believed in states rights, with the federal only taking precedent when the constitution and civil liberty were threatened. The raiding of Medical Pot clubs by the feds would sicken him, regardless of his personal views on marijuana. The attacks on assisted suicide violate another conservative viewpoint.
A Smaller government that stays out of its citizens life. Of course huge deficits and no bid oil contracts for halliburton would have been completely against the core ideology of prudent financial planning and open market economics.
The Military he saw as vital but defensive in nature, An aggressive invasion on foreign soil is imply not in the interests of our world position
My father was never against social programs as long as their value was determined by an independent auditor. The idea of spinning or twisting data to fit a political agenda would be to him dishonest He hated Reagan and Bush the First as well as George W. He hated thier dishonesty. He always said Reagan sold out America for corporate interests. He called that treason and he believed in the death penalty for treason. I don’t believe in the death penalty and on that subject we argued long into many nights. however, when we argued George W was a new president. 7 years into the horror of his second term, perhaps my father could have convinced me at last
Image from Domai
This story is purely a work of fiction. I do not know and have never met the real woman herein named Willow. The story comes entirely from my imagination.
The Goddess Wisdom’s earthly name is Willow, and she grew up in a log house deep in the old growth forests of the Northwest. Her parents came of age in the sixties and went back to the land. I knew them then, and we were definitely hippies. They raised Willow to be a free spirit too.
Willow went to school in a one-room schoolhouse, and she knew all the kids within miles—there weren’t many. Mostly she played by herself in the forest and by the river. Cities scared her, but she had no fear of the woods, and when she became a woman, and confident in her self, she liked to hide her clothing in a hollow and roam the land and gambol without inhibition.
Willow felt most alive when she went bare, outside, but she was careful. She kept her wits, and if she sensed people around or saw a boat in the distance she’d run and hide.
Still, as much as Willow was careful of her safety, in her exuberance she sometimes forget other important things, like chores or homework. If truth be know, when she ran wild and free she forgot most everything and lived in the moment, reveling in the exhilaration of being a pixie in the wood. Then, when she remembered her responsibilities, she’d feel foolish and say to herself: Oh my God, where have I been?
Willow took a bus to go to high school, and she met lots of new kids, but she felt closest to those who lived near her and whom she’d grown up with. When they graduated Willow organized a party of her best friends, young women and men. They went skinny-dipping and ran around the woods acting silly, and though Willow wasn’t especially attracted to any of the kids she grew up with she did like to show off a bit, and even flirt.
Willow wanted to go to college, but she was afraid of leaving home. But besides college she also wanted to fall in love, and to do that she knew she’d have to be brave and go. She went to her advisor, a council tree in a deep ravine hidden from all the world, and she made herself naked and climbed into her tree, her old friend, and agonized over desires and anxieties.
Willow tried to use her youth, her pale color, and her softness to argue with and contradict the gnarls and tangled hardness of the old tree set in its ways amongst a background of young growth, but the tree’s violent history: the breaking of limbs, the moving of earth, animals, rot, chaos, and the striving for life for eons would brook no truck from this puny and inconsequential, though beautiful, young woman. Evidence of the tree’s struggle to flourish allowed her no excuses.
Amongst the melee, Willow, a woman, a human, struggled to determine the course of her own life and the life that might someday, if she was brave enough, spring from her. She tried, valiantly, not to stay and be eaten by the tree’s great maw that she felt behind her, but it was hard to let go. With one hand she held on to the past to kept from falling, and with the other she reached for her future.
Her friend counseled her, and she came to understand that she could go and seek her destiny, and if she chose well, chose a mate who complemented her, who lifted her yet let her be the woman she was, then she and he and what they might bring forth could return and live together, forever, in the harmony of the forest.
Willow felt happy, and she did go forth, and I hope that she did, eventually, find her love, whether it be man or woman. I don’t know what happened to her, but that is the how the tale is told of how Willow, now Wisdom, became a Goddess.
Its hard to remember those hundred degree days when the Goddess in the icy waters of the river was the lucky one.
The mists and rains cover the Northwest these days as we settle into our long gray slumber.
The memories of warmer times seem almost legend.
There is something about the fog and mists that makes me refelct on things long ago. Not the happy times or the triumphs. Not the tragedies or heartbreaks, instead I focus on the foolish times, the embarrassing things I did when I was younger but too wide eyed and inexperienced to know they were embarrassing.
I then wonder if the person I am today I will look back on with some cringes when I am 10 or 20 years past from today and I conclude if I am being honest that likely I will.
The snow may come soon, we get it rarely here, maybe a few inches a year. Its a beautiful blanket but I am grateful it lasts days and not months.
Through the imagry of the Goddesses we can remember the sunshine and the summer sweet air and for that I am also so very grateful
Enjoy these couple sneak peeks at Thorin, who is by far one of the best and most beautiful human beings I have ever had the honor to have known.
There are few who walk the earth as beloved as she
images are sneak pees from Hippiegoddess.com upcoming sets