When the River Carries Me

Aging is not a sudden break — it is a river that keeps carrying us onward, sometimes gently, sometimes fiercely.
Between letting go of the old shores and trusting the new currents lies a quiet initiation — one that can feel unsettling, yet deeply sacred.

Aging — that mysterious word that at times frightens us and yet inevitably calls our name.
It is not a standstill, not a fading, but a transformation that unfolds right in the midst of life.
As we learn to struggle less and trust more, a different space begins to open — softer, wider, truer.

This text is an invitation to stop trying to control the river of life and to surrender to its flow.
It is a reminder I whisper — or sometimes say out loud — to myself every day.
A piece of soul work, a touch of magic,
and perhaps a gentle recognition that aging is not an ending,
but another way of shining.

Of Aging, of Letting Go, and of Becoming

As you may have noticed, I’ve been spending more time lately with the theme of aging.
Perhaps because time itself feels quieter now.
Perhaps because the mirror has grown more honest.
Or perhaps because the inner call to become still has grown louder
than the noise of the world.

Against the Current

How long has it been?
That wild, defiant, radiant time when I swam against the current —
relentless, fierce, carried by the firm belief
that staying forever young must somehow be possible.

I swam as if my life depended on it.
And maybe it did — the life that still needed to prove itself back then.
I wanted to be invincible, luminous, swift —
a spark of stardust refusing to fade.

The Secret of Letting Go

And then, at some point, words began to drift toward me — quietly, yet unstoppable:
“Aging is not the end of swimming. It is the art of being carried.”

Since then, I have been practicing.
I no longer swim against time, – at least I try.
I let myself be carried. I let myself be changed.

Because, truthfully, there is no other way.
So I allow myself to be the river — not just the swimmer.

It sounds poetic, yes — but in truth, it is also uncomfortable.
For being carried means to trust what is greater than my will,
stronger than my ambition, older than my body.

It means making peace with my own finiteness —
and that is not an easy conversation.

The Art of Transparency

I discover: I have not become less.
I have become more porous.
Life moves through me like water through a sieve of light.
The forms change — the essence remains.

Sometimes I think of Inanna, the Sumerian goddess,
who descended into the underworld to surrender her garments and crowns,
until she stood naked and vulnerable before herself.

Perhaps aging is exactly that —
a sacred descent, a shedding of roles, certainties, and masks.
Not to lose oneself,
but to become more true.

The Breath of Heaven

And yet — sometimes, when the wind runs through my hair,
I feel the whole sky breathing within me.
As if everything I have let go of has returned,
softer, larger, transformed.

I realize: aging is not a vanishing.
It is a returning —
to the rhythm that carries us all,
to the place where the “I” no longer struggles,
but becomes part of the great river itself.

The Quiet Revolution of Transparency

Socially, it can feel as though you’re slipping out of the grid.
The old answers to “So, what do you do?” dissolve into a gentle smile, -sometimes.
You begin to notice that belonging no longer arises from roles, but from resonance.
That identity is not fixed — it breathes.

In this state, something quietly revolutionary happens:
You begin to no longer have yourself — you begin to be yourself.
Not as a construct, but as a living movement.
The form of “I” becomes permeable,
and through its openings flows life itself — unedited, unmasked, unapologetically real.

It is not a state for vanity —
but it is one for the soul.

And you?

How do you meet your own aging?
Which myths accompany you — which images, which voices?
Would you like to share your reflections?
I would love to hear them.

Because perhaps aging, when we look at it together,
is not a decline —
but an initiation into the mystery of a becoming not yet visible.

Aging – for many women it remains a quiet taboo, a process few dare to speak of.
In a society that worships youth and perfection, maturity is often told as a story of loss – something to correct, conceal, or defeat. Yet aging is not a downfall, but a transformation: an invitation to enter one’s own depth.

As a psychotherapist, I see how deeply these transitions move women – including myself – physically, emotionally, and spiritually. In every fiber, the body calls for relationship, for attention, for a new and tender dialogue. Aging reveals what has long been ignored: needs, boundaries, vulnerability – but also wisdom, self-knowledge, and dignity.

As an artist, I explore this transformation through images. In my collages, bodies, symbols, and inner landscapes merge – telling stories of transformation, of the beauty of ripening, of the courage to remain visible.

For me, aging has become a creative process: a shedding of old skins, a listening to what remains when there is no longer the need to impress. A becoming – in the midst of passing.

When the world pulls apart on all sides and voices drown each other out, we need inner antennas to sense where our life force may flow. Instead of letting ourselves be scattered, we can choose to guide it into channels that nourish us, connect us, and keep us moving.

As the days grow shorter, a space opens that calls us inward. It is a time when seeds ripen in the darkness before they become visible. From this depth arise forms, sounds, movements – the raw material of our creativity.

To create means embracing two things: the daring to set out into unknown terrain without a map, and the patience to grant the invisible protection and endurance.

Creative work means swinging between closeness and distance – engaging, releasing, returning. Only in this interplay does clarity emerge, and with it the moment when the next step reveals itself.

And so the one question arises: What is the one thing that truly calls me – and what is the first small gesture today that opens the door toward it?

Whoever walks this path learns to trust the invisible sight of night, to honor the body as guide, and to recognize in the voices of others the echo of one’s own search.

In this field of questions and sometimes tense experiences, images grow within me that then burst forth like a liberation – and often only reveal their meaning afterward, in the act of beholding. Thus, a few new digital collages have emerged, and one of them carries a story it longs to tell:

At the hour when the stars stand above the earth like open and watchful eyes, the unknown woman encounters the bull of blue light. Her hair streams in the wind, and her feet know the essence of the earth.

The bull – though one might not see it at first glance – is ancient. He is the symbol of the earth, of fertility, of wild natural power, of untamed instinct. In myths he has long borne goddesses across lands and seas. He is the beast of the moon, of sexuality, of creative potency.

He is the bull of blue light, whose horns hold the moons and whose mane carries the fire of the world.

His deep blue color mirrors the sacred, the transcendent that slumbers within matter.

The unknown woman with white hair wears no shoes, for she walks the path between worlds. Fish swim beside her in the air, birds sing in the element of water, and a butterfly leads her as though it were a messenger of transformation.

She climbs upon the back of the bull of azure substance. Each of his steps resounds like the heartbeat of the earth. His horns are not of horn but carved from moonlight. In his mane lives the fire of the elements. He bears spirals and seals upon his skin – ancient signs that can neither be read nor forgotten, only felt: the alphabet of the unconscious.

The nameless woman, with hair like flowing time, merges with the bull. She is the awareness, the soul, the guiding force that dares to ride upon matter.

The soul moves with matter, the light upon the heavy, the infinite upon the finite. Thus the bull strides with the woman upon his back across the hill – not spirit or flesh, heaven or earth, but always both at once.

At last, upon the highest hill, the bull stands still and speaks without words into the wind of time:
“I am the power that carries. You are the breath that guides. Without you I remain blind, without me you become groundless. Together we are balance.”

In times of tension, it helps to return again and again to one’s own silence, in order to hear the subtle voice beneath it. Whoever feels the breath discovers a thread that carries them through storm and restlessness. And when we remember what truly nourishes us, the inner compass realigns itself on its own.

And of course, it is easier said than done. The path through silence and not-knowing is an athletic challenge in its own right.

DigitalCollage – ©️Angela Fischlein

Aphrodite was never originally a harmless goddess of beauty—she was a force. In pre-Greek cultures, we find her ancestors: Inanna, Ishtar, Astarte—goddesses who united love, war, and kingship within themselves. These goddesses held power over life and death; they were mistresses of sexuality and fertility, but also of politics and war. They embodied a feminine power that does not ask—it commands.

And then, one day, the patriarchy makes its triumphant entrance—and with it, a transformation.

With the rise of patriarchal systems (Indo-European cultures, the Olympian pantheon), the structure changes:
The former Great Goddess is fragmented into separate figures: Hera (marriage), Demeter (motherhood), Athena (wisdom), Artemis (virginity), Aphrodite (eroticism).
This fragmentation destroys the earlier wholeness of feminine power.

Aphrodite is now reduced to a single aspect: beauty and erotic allure. Her warrior side goes to Ares, her political authority to Zeus.
What was once sovereign omnipotence becomes a muse for male desire, what was once a goddess of war becomes a goddess of adornment.

The rise of patriarchal systems is not a myth in a vacuum—it reflects the historical transition from egalitarian or women-centered cultures to hierarchical, warrior societies. The Olympian myths are the literary imprint of this revolution of power.

The Birth of the Tamed Goddess

In Hesiod’s Theogony, her origin is told: Aphrodite is born from the foam that forms when the severed genitals of Uranus fall into the sea. This very birth is already a myth of transition: the female womb, once the source of all life, is stripped of its power. Now Aphrodite does not come from a goddess, but from an act of male violence. She becomes the product of a castration, no longer the creative primal force herself.

Marriage as Domestication

Hardly born, Aphrodite is forced into marriage with Hephaestus, the lame smith—a stark break from the ancient freedom of love goddesses. Hephaestus represents the patriarchal need to capture this untamed erotic power, to fix it like iron in the fire. Aphrodite resists, takes lovers (Ares, Adonis), but the story brands her as a faithless adulteress, not as a free lover.

Reduction to Beauty and Allure

In patriarchal society, she is reduced to aesthetic attractiveness and sexual availability. She is no longer the mistress of war (that role goes to Ares), no longer the arbiter of kingdoms (like Inanna), but becomes a symbol of feminine seduction—and therefore of danger that must be tamed.

This is reflected in the myths:

The Judgment of Paris: Aphrodite wins the beauty contest by promising a man (Paris) the most beautiful woman (Helen). Her power is thus defined by what men desire—not by herself.

The Adonis Myth: She loves, but she cannot prevent death. She weeps. She is powerless.

The Patriarchal Moral Hammer

Aphrodite is portrayed as a source of chaos—she leads to adultery, war (Troy), destruction. The underlying message: female sexuality is dangerous, uncontrollable, and must be bound by order (Zeus, Hephaestus).

The Loss of Wholeness

Compared to Inanna, who “descends to the underworld and returns,” honored in rituals as both queen and warrior, Aphrodite is a fragmented goddess. Her power over war, death, and sovereignty is outsourced (to Ares, Zeus, Hades). What remains is eroticism without sovereignty, beauty without a sword.

Feminist Interpretation:

Aphrodite symbolizes how patriarchy sexualizes, aestheticizes, and then controls female power. Yet in her shadows—in the wild, capricious, seductive, even destructive Aphrodite—the memory of the untamed goddess still lives on.