It shouldn't surprise anyone that the culture that made the feminist gynecological encyclopedia "Our Bodies, Ourselves" a coffee table book - followed by the riveting scene of women discovering themselves by squatting over mirrors in "Fried Green Tomatoes" - inevitably would morph into the self-absorbed, self-worshiping goddess movement.
Fast forwarding from "I am woman, hear me roar" to "I am goddess, back off Bubba," the goddess movement is a logical extension of the narcissistic self-esteem movement. Emotion and superstition congeal in a spiritualized version of Revlon meets Rosie the Riveter.
I should pause here for another confession. I once went on a "goddess hike" in the Blue Ridge Mountains, which roughly translated meant nine women over 40, no guys. We were a spirited bunch, equipped with sandwiches and a bottle of champagne, when about two miles along the Appalachian Trail we intersected with nine male convicts clearing underbrush with chainsaws and one guard armed with one-little-tiny pistol. (Hush, Sigmund.)
Whereupon we wondered, what was such a great idea about no guys?
Considering that the convicts might be able to connect the dots as we did, we began assessing our defenses: one pocket knife, one champagne bottle and one gorgeous woman who had slipped under the minimum-age wire. We determined that she was our best protection, figuring we'd offer her as a sacrificial virgin. Then we ran.
Whether ancient times really were more female-centered as Brown fictionalizes - and as some scholars suggest - it is increasingly clear that modern times are leaning that way. As we seek to find new ways to express our narcissism and invent new matriarchal myths to sustain us, however, we might remember that for every alluring Georgia O'Keeffe receptacle in nature, there is an important-looking pinnacle nearby.
The real name of the game is balance, yin and yang, male and female. And real goddesses, as with everything else, do not have to declare themselves.