Dangerous Compassions

who God is

who God is

Hey, reader.  How are you doing?  My new home is the project of a fading Presbyterian church.  I was dancing in the sun wearing a red skort and skimpy purple tank top.  My glorious fat tummy is sticking out.  Then I remembered–it’s Sunday morning.  I know who God is.  But do the churchgoers here accept that God can be this tree, Parent Earth, life force, a strange large woman moving about rhythmically in their previously chill courtyard?

I respect the Mystery in all of us.  Never would I want to assume the elder Christians here would disapprove of me.  I don’t know their values or what they’ve gone through to get here.  But I must admit I’m slightly afraid of getting scolded to leave.

I want to write about who God is because I am no longer falling asleep with the rainbow goddess like before.

golden pollen

“Ok, so imagine a paintbrush,” I said to Ming.  “A huge, oversized paintbrush with very soft brown bristles.  And it’s being held by God.  God is a naked fat Black woman with large breasts, as you know.”

Ming and I were in bed, and he was about to go to sleep.

“So she’s holding this paintbrush, and it has some golden powdery stuff on it.  I guess it’s pollen?” I said. “She’s painting me with this golden stuff, and it’s extremely pleasurable.  I’m lying there– on my tummy, with my eyes closed.  First she starts at the top of my head.  It feels really nice and safe and comforting,”

Ming listened to me.

“I don’t visit the rainbow goddess anymore, so this is a way to go to sleep,” I said.  “Sometimes I lie on my side, and she paints me that way.  Or sometimes she just pets me, starting by petting my hair.  If I’m lucky, I fall asleep before she gets to my feet.  What do you think?”

This bedtime visualization has been helping me relax and feel loved.  Mother God loves me.  The world is my home.  I don’t need to be ashamed or feel lesser than for anything.  God loves me.

fat Black woman

How do you imagine God?  I like to imagine God as the universe pulsating with planets, as my ishtadeva Holy Mother Sri Sarada Devi.  As my own mom, as Ming, as my own self.  I imagine God as Parent Earth a lot, the sun, the whole sky.

  • rocks
  • mycelium
  • night
  • words
  • music
  • pleasure
  • a cabbage
  • roses
  • garlic
  • the moon
  • motion
  • energy
  • electricity
  • dumpsters
  • death
  • lightning
  • a cave
  • rainbow

But a fat Black woman is a wonderful way to imagine God and as real as any.   A fat Black woman seems the antidote to my former understanding of God as an old white man.

I was taught God is an old white man at church as a kid.  A church possibly like this church I live by now.


Breasts make me think of love.  In my personal mythology, I store a lot of love in my breasts.  Probably my breasts will never feed a baby.  But when I hug a friend or have sex with Ming, my breasts are prominent and give comfort, pleasure, joy.

Fat women have loved and nurtured me skillfully more than any other demographic of person.  My mom was a fat woman, after all.

When I was in the hospital in Las Vegas, at the edge of death when my stomach ulcer bled, and when any phlebotomist draws my blood, which is an ordeal, Black women calling me “honey,” “baby,” or “baby girl” save my life.

Who am I safe with?  Who cares for me?  I’m sorry when I said that men don’t know how to love.  I know love can look many different ways and come from anywhere.  But white men have loved me not that well, to be honest.


I have atheist friends and friends who are opposed to religion, calling religion anti-science, oppressive nonsense, or make believe.   I love my friends.  And that’s fine if you don’t want religion or spirituality.

But at least some subset of these nonreligious people might find fun and community in religion if they could see God in a more reasonable, realistic way than a harsh white guy on a cloud.

Who nurtures you?  Where do you find love?  I’m happy I know who God is.  I know where my bread is buttered.  These days I can’t have butter of cow or bread made of wheat, but you know what I mean.


My mom’s mom worked pollinating flowers sometimes.  Yes, she had a job as a bee.  My mom told me that my nana used a paintbrush.

So maybe in this God vision, I’m being painted with pollen because I’m a sexy part of a flower (the pistil?) that’s being pollinated so I can make seeds.

Over and over I say to myself in my head, “I love you, Laura-Marie,” while God is painting me.  The golden pollen definitely feels like love.  I’m being affirmed into fertility.


“Did she ever paint you like that?” I asked Ming.

I don’t know what goes on for other people when they’re falling asleep.

“No,” Ming said.

“Well, probably she wants to paint you too,” I said.

The great thing is, I’m pretty sure God wants to paint you with pollen also, reader friend.  When you’re going to sleep next time, you might let her.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

2 replies on “who God is”

These are so delightful. I love the sensuousness of the spirituality you embody. So much more healthy and REAL than the stern, finger-shaking, Puritanical images of God many people grew up with. If more people saw the Holy the way you do, I imagine more people would want to be friends with Her.

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