Darker Side of Venus

Relationships with goddesses have their ups and downs like any other relationship. This spring I was feeling a lot of pain thinking about my love related work. As part of walking Venus’s path, I committed to growth.

That never meant that Venus gets to manipulate me and throw random challenges my way because she thinks they would be good for me or because I should toughen up. It does mean that I will not let my fear—not even the fear of risking what I have—stand in the way of growing in my understanding of love or advancing my love work.

There’s a fine line. When we invite the gods into our lives, they do influence us. However, consent is important. I don’t pretend to know how the universe works. There are people who I’ve met who helped me grow; some of those introductions have a very Venus feel to them. That doesn’t bother me. Getting a gentle push off a cliff does, as does being manipulated into growing to become the person Venus hopes I’ll be rather than the person I would become.

As I said, I felt a lot of pain and doubt this spring thinking about whether I had been played by my goddess. She dropped in for a chat while I was working out at the gym.

“Are you pulling my strings,” I asked.

“Would you do that to someone you guide?”

“Of course not!”

“And yet, how do you feel when people finally make their choices and face their growth?”

It was at this moment that “Firebird’s Child” came up on my playlist. That’s not normally on my work-out playlist, but for some reason I had chosen a much broader playlist that morning. It may not be a typical work-out song, but it is the Venus Ardens song.

“Watch!” she said. “Dance with me.” An image began to unfold. “You’ve been the cauldrontoo; just as I help you, you help others.”

She’s right. She showed me within myself me as lover, waiting with anticipation, dread, and pride as the beloved finds their flame—chooses their path. You can help them to the fire and welcome them to the flames. You can choose not to act if you’re sure that no good can result, but this is love, and love needs risk.

The music advances:


I am the firebird, the boldest song you've ever heard

Join in the dance, and make it wild, wild, wild!

Join in the dance and make it wild!

Sister will you follow me?

Sister will you follow me?

Sister will you dance with me?

Sister sorrow walk with me!

Sister will you follow me? Sister will you dance with me?

Sister sorrow walk with me! Sister will you follow me?

Sister will you burn with me? Sister will you follow me?

Sister sorrow dance with me!

Like a flame you must be wild/I am a firebird!


“Yes! Like that!” She shows me Solace, strong, brave, and vulnerable all at once, holding out her hand. With eagerness she welcomes her sister to the flame. She knows the potential that might be realized. And yet, every time we step into the fire, we risk. Solace knows this:


Freely fly as what you are and never walk in shame!

You must not fear to blister if you’d live a life in flame!


Every time you invite someone to dance, to fly, to burn, you know not what will emerge. Will a new firebird emerge, or have you just invited your beloved to blister in flame.

“That is what we do; that is what it is to be love,” she said.

You can’t love like that and push your beloved off cliffs hoping they will hit the ground stronger. Although sometimes when that’s the path they freely choose, it is your job to toss your beloved out of the nest—even a very high nest—and hope they learn to fly. And yes, love’s job is to be there grieving for the splats as much as celebrating the successes. Love works that way whether you’re a goddess, a spiritual guide, a friend, or a parent.

And all this is part of walking her path. I must not fear to blister myself. I also have signed up again and again to offer people the fire of transformation and growth and meet them on the other side, blistered or flying. All of course with a healthy dose of consent and preparation.

Her answer is reassuring. I can trust it. I’ve lived all the options. I’ve been the one who reaches out and grasped the offered hand as I’m swept into the dance. I’ve offered that hand. Now that she shows the parallel, I see that is what happened in spring. She’s there holding me, providing comfort as I heal, joining in sadness that this time a new firebird did not meet the dawn.