I have always loved women. I have always tried to surround  myself with Goddesses, and there are many around me. Maria, Lulu, Fanny, Mother until she left, Minnie. And these two, the first the cast of a Madonna from a church destroyed by bombers in Germany, the second a muse I have always kept in my office, near my computer. I see women as powerful, loving, as manifestations of Shekinah, God’s female angel and warrior in the Kaballah. I believe the statue on the right to be Shekinah, who God instructed to make sure that humans allowed their creative sparks to light and shine, and who told Shekinah to protect Mother Earth and destroy any human who despoiled her. In the Kabbalah, Shekinah quarreled with God, chased him through the skies on chariots, told him he had messed up the world and needed to fix it.  He fled from her, hid from here.

When Shekinah found weak humans who had failed to ignite their creative spark, or who despoiled Mother Earth through trash or neglect, she devoured them, leading thousands of angels and cheribums to brush against their cheeks and hearts and single them until they vanished in a cloud of smoke. Shekinah is my muse, my guiding spirit, she warns me to be creative, be strong, make my own decisions or she will send a cloud of cheribum to roast my ass. This, friends, is why I have written 22 books. I dare not. I love Shekinah, and I love the female spirit of strength, nurture and creativity that she represents.

I believe Maria is Shekinah in human form. She is a creative fury. I haven’t told her this theory. Yet.