Paraskevidekatriaphobia means, you guessed it, fear of Friday the 13th.
Once again, all seven billion of us are living through another apparently bewitched day, the first of three this year (the others occur in March and November) — and a day that, BTW, holds the number of my “soul” in numerology (found by adding up the numerical values of the vowels of full birth name Ann Renee Kreilkamp).
Hey wait a minute! But are we, underneath, actually afraid of Friday the 13th? Well, do we fear Friday, the day whose name is derived from the German goddess Freya, the Roman goddess Venus — both goddesses of love? And do we fear the number 13, which is identical to the annual number of human female menses paralleling the number of annual full moons?
If so, if we do fear that double female whammy, “Friday the 13th,” then we are upholding and living through another patriarchial superstition, another unnoticed western cultural prejudice that stems from our millennia-old fear and fascination of the Divine Feminine, she who balances out the Divine Masculine — and when balanced, the two together thrive.
And tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. When love is in the air. Romantic love. Silly, superficial, Hallmark Card, dozen roses, chocolate candy, advertising-fueled “love” for which we’re supposed to dress up and swoon into some kind of a trance across an expensive restaurant dinner table from “the Other” who keeps us spellbound for maybe two years, then, whoosh, off comes the mask and we’re faced with reality.
What is reality? That’s when relationship get’s interesting. When we let go of our projections upon the Other of what we, unconsciously, either love or hate in ourselves. When we begin to absorb those projections into our conscious awareness, to integrate the male and the female within, to become whole.
Meanwhile, Valentine’s Day, a Roman Christian holiday that squashed the pagan Lupercalia, a fertility festival when ancients celebrated the coming of spring with a purification rite. And through the centuries, Valentine’s Day has gotten lighter and lighter, more and more sentimental, unreal, until now, those who have been “in love” at least once or twice or three times know, through the slog of hard, painful experience, that romantic love signifies but a trance dance that cannot last.
What can and does last is the endless, universal love that upholds and fuels the universe, including these presently embodied selves, hormonally seducing us to project the supreme mysterious fuel of cosmic LOVE onto the fragile embodied form of a single other human being on planet Earth. As if that human being is “the one;” as if, without that one, we are lost, bereft, abandoned, rejected: unloved.
What a burden to carry! No wonder the Other tends to either try or lie to keep up appearances — or, finally, to give up and sneak away.
About seven years ago I wrote an extended essay that describes the evolution in my experience of human love. You might enjoy it. You might be ready for it! Or not!
How much suffering must we endure before we agree to let go of our attachments? How much pain must we burden ourselves with before we free ourselves to celebrate the communion of light and dark within, male left brain and female right brain united in the joyous heart, celebrating, singing, dancing this endless, internal co-creation gushing torrentially through these purified embodied forms, morphing into the specific talents, skills, wisdom of our original individualized natures, gifting endless brilliant generous expression of our unique selves into the world around us?
It’s not that we need to love. It’s that we are love, when unleashed.