Higher Powers

Digial art collage by Stella Kalaw

My biopsy appointment was in two hours. With my grandmother and mother both diagnosed with breast cancer, the suspicious blurs of white on my annual mammogram had resulted in a few sleepless nights. There was just one last thing to do before leaving.

I pulled open the top glass shelf of the oak cabinet that housed my special treasures, reached in, pulled out and clenched my two goddesses, one in each hand. I breathed in, closed my eyes, and silently requested their intervention. Then I placed them back in the cabinet and, as always, left a tribute.

My orchids were blooming, and I chose a deep purple one and placed it beside my goddesses, carefully lowering the glass door. The hinges on the old doors were fragile and had to be handled with care. Only I could be unhinged that day. As I was closing the door to my apartment, I touched the mezuzah my bubby had given me so many years ago.

My first brass goddess, not bigger than a teaspoon, was given to me by a friend, an ex-nun, right after my husband and I separated. Marla had just finished doing a smudging ceremony in my bedroom and then handed me a brass goddess figurine telling me she would be a protectress.

I acquired my second goddess in San Miguel where I had been hanging out at the Parroquia de San Miguel Arcangel cathedral, enjoying the active worship practices of the Mexican congregants, revelling in the beauty of the architecture, and relishing the peaceful atmosphere.

Everywhere I looked, I saw life-size Madonnas draped in blue velvet robes trimmed with gold thread or ribbons. Women gathered around them, carefully pinning milagros—tiny silver charms—onto the flowing fabric. Each medal represented a hope: a mother praying for her child, someone seeking healing for a broken arm or heart, another requesting protection during surgery, or a desperate plea to find a beloved pet.

The Madonnas' robes glinted with countless milagros, each charm purchased from the elderly vendor who kept vigil beside the cathedral entrance. Her wooden box, sectioned like an old printer's typeset, held a treasury of tiny silver hopes. Drawn to their power, I crossed the street to where Madonna figurines lined market shelves by the hundreds. I chose one to take home, along with a handful of milagros, carrying a piece of that sacred tradition with me.

I come from a line of women who always looked to higher powers in times of necessity. My great-grandmother and my bubby followed the religious rules of the fierce, judgemental, patriarchal Jewish God in great terror of punishment and retribution if rules were broken. Prayers and blessings were uttered to an all-powerful God to ward off sickness and ease childbirth. My bubby saw illness as a punishment for a misdeed, so she tried her best to toe the line and follow the rules.

She also addressed her belief in evil spirits through her various superstitious practices. When my babies were born, my bubby tied a red string around their tiny wrists to ensure they would not be snatched away by lurking spirits. She sprinkled raisins in the cradle to ensure a sweet life and once tried to hide a knife under the mattress to ward off danger. I never asked if the entreaties and charms worked. I knew that if they didn’t, my great-grandmother and bubby would assume they were to blame. They hadn’t prayed hard enough, hadn’t lit enough candles or given a big enough donation.

My mother cast her spiritual net more widely. If anyone in our family became seriously ill, she visited all the religious institutions she could, regardless of the denomination. She not only chatted with rabbis but also with priests, lit candles, bought religious medals and made donations.

In Montreal, we lived within walking distance of two churches and a synagogue, so she could easily cover all bases. If the situation was really dire, she visited Notre Dame Cathedral and then St. Joseph’s Oratory, where miracles were said to have happened. Who could doubt the wall of crutches left behind by pilgrims who had arrived crippled and left walking thanks to Brother Andre?

My sister, too, has her goddesses. She started her collection with Mexican milagros after studying art there and added to them as she travelled. Although we live in different cities, our collections are similar and we share an attraction to the mystical. In times of illness, we both rely on our doctors and modern medicine but also on the practices of the women who raised us.

The doctor confirmed the white spots on my mammogram were benign cysts. I breathed normally for the first time in a week, hugged the doctor, and felt the tension drain away. I know it won’t always happen this way, but I thanked my goddesses for coming through once again.