I didn’t know the man who died. It was luck, more than anything, that I found out about the sale. It wasn’t an estate sale, exactly – the family was more than happy to take care of the furniture and the kitchen, all the foundational parts of a life. What they shoved into cardboard boxes, loose and unwrapped, clanking and fracturing in transit to be unloaded behind the local magic shop, were his altars.
The money, I was told, was going to a college fund, some beloved relative, which made it a little better. But I was in the middle of writing my own will at the time, and I lent the scene more tragedy than it might have deserved, watching them pile statues and chalices and candlesticks at random onto their tables, just trying to find enough room to hold a life of devotion. Was this what would happen to my carefully curated and kept magical items when I was gone?
I sorted through the piles, looking for the good stuff – if he was at all like me, there would have been two or three special things for his most beloved gods and spirits. Maybe we had someone in common. Maybe I could help carry on a little of this stranger’s legacy and make sure his things were not repurposed or destroyed, but given back to the gods they had been dedicated to.
That was why I picked up the little icon of Athena, the candlestick that reminded me of the World Tree, the holey stones on dark cords to wear around my neck. I gathered them up and paid, and wandered off – and then came back as they unpacked another box. I don’t know if that’s when they pulled her out, or if I had just looked past her before. All I know is that, in a small section of slightly-broken Kemetic statues, unlabeled and unmistakeable, I found Aphrodite.
At the time I did not worship her. I honored Aphrodite, certainly – I was in too deep with some of the Olympians not to show respect to the others – but I had never reached out to build a relationship. She scared me. I was already neck-deep in love, with two human partners and the romantic aspect of my spiritual life looming larger than it ever had. The last thing I needed was the attention of a goddess who controlled such things and who I might be able to anger. My life, I thought, was hard enough.
At the same time, I knew things were starting to fray around the edges. My attempts at being all things to all people left me exhausted and panicked at my failure. I felt further and further from myself, unable to access the things that made me feel grounded and certain. Worse, it wasn’t working. No matter how I tried, my partners wanted more of me, and the bits I could spare no longer felt like enough. My relationships were the only thing I had any energy for, and I had been feeling that energy running out for a long time.
I weighed all of that, but the thing that decided me was that she was beautiful. It was clearly a sculpture by a specific artist, one I had never seen before, not a reproduction. The white of the plaster was imperfect, stained with offerings and a little worn. She was naked, and warm from the sun when I picked her up, and her expression had that lively look to it that some icons get after a long time on an altar. She smiled, knowing all the reasons why there was no space for her in my home. I cleared my throat.
“Excuse me,” I said to the woman running the sale. “How much?”
Venus (Aphrodite), Roman statue (marble) copy of Greek original, 2nd century AD (original 5th c. BC), Naples Archeological Museum (Museo Archeologico Nazionale)
My practice is intuitive, which meant I was not surprised that I already had all of the pieces I needed for her altar when I got her home. The incense burner than had been drifting around my house, a stretch of blue tissue paper in lieu of an altar cloth, shells and ships and the hard candy Valentines hearts to strew at her feet. I cleaned the statue with khernips, focused on the physical considerations while I flinched and shied away from the spiritual, still. Maybe it would be a bad fit and I would take care of her until I could find another household to take her. I marveled at the detail of the statue – her toes, her nipples, the volume of her hair – and, when I had no distractions left, I set her on her altar and burnt frankincense, knelt and closed my eyes.
She met me easily, already there when I reached out. “This is very nice,” she said – although translating her into words is a necessary fiction. She was the sense of comfort, of ease and pleased surprise. “But are you sure you want me here, little one?”
“Ma’am,” I started, polite, and then tried to think of what to say. I had put tokens for each of my relationships on her altar already, incongruous against the blue, and they seemed heavy now. Uncomfortable. Tiring. Knees already chafing against the wood floor, I cleared my throat. “I don’t- I think I need help? I’m so tired, and I’m afraid, and I-”
My throat closed up around it, the months of strain, feeling unsupported and solely responsible, working too hard to let myself feel helpless as I watched the gaps grow. There were things I had not yet put into words, how could I bring them to her? Instead, I fell back into what I was sure of. “Sing muses of Aphrodite, who rose whole from the sea. Sing of the white-armed ally of lovers, whose gifts are-”
She soothed me, and gathered me up. “I am all of the parts of love,” she said. “Those parts will be there, whether or not you know me. I am the heartbreak, the rush of falling, the work of maintaining. Hurting does not mean I have turned my back on you, child. You do not have to be alone for it.”
I rested my head against her chest like a child and realized she was right. I had felt terribly alone.
Marble bust of Aphrodite of Knidos in the British Museum
Polyamory is, I think, the hardest way to navigate relationships because it does not allow for idleness. I cannot fall into complacency and miscommunication, I cannot let problems go unremarked and unaddressed for any length of time. There simply isn’t room. I am challenged, every day, to figure out how to collaborate with my partners and connect across hurt feelings or challenging schedules, how to carve out space for each specific relationship in the frantic lives of multiple adults. It is often exhausting.
I would not have it any other way. For me, polyamory allows for exponential gain. It’s a life filled with love, where everybody can have the things they need without relying on one other human for everything. It’s demanding, and frustrating, and joyous. It pushes me to be the best version of myself.
That doesn’t mean it always works.
The first breakup came six months after I set up Aphrodite’s altar. The second was a year after. Between them, they carried every bad emotion I could associate with love – longing, rage, betrayal, bitterness, disappointment, jealousy. I sobbed, tossed through sleepless nights, rehashed and relitigated fights to my therapist and the bedroom walls. I forced myself out of doors, recognizing depression’s early signs at the corners of my life. I tried to remember how to be alone.
“Why did they do those things?” I asked the goddess of love, more than once. “I thought they loved me. They told me they loved me. How do you love someone and do that?”
“Because they are who they are,” she said, sympathetic but unmoved. “This is one of the risks. You hurt because you love them.” She stroked my back. “You deserve to be loved in the way that you need. By everyone in your life.” She put her hand against my breastbone, gesturing inward, and I knew that there was more work waiting.
The author’s altar to Aphrodite [L. Babb]
The goddess of love has taught me, more than anything, about boundaries. She has taught me about recognizing my limits and my own worth, about loving myself and looking for relationships where I am valued and met. It is a lifetime’s worth of lessons. She continues to open new paths, for me – new relationships, new kinds of love, new ways to see and be seen. I am in love, again. I am learning my own needs, and how to ask for them. I am working on how I show up for others, and let them be there for me.
I am never alone.
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