Men & THE GODDESS

In his book Prehistoric Figurines (Routledge 2005), Dougy Bailey tells a story about a dude in Romania who was widening his garden when he stumbled across a stunning hoard of ancient clay figurines. Later, after archaeologists had torn up his entire yard, they decided it had once been a town belonging to the “A3 phase” of the Neolithic Cucuteni culture (2nd half of 5th millennium BC).

These figurines came in two sets of six each. Set #1 looked like the dude on the left: wide shoulders, legs apart, penises prominent, and just a dab of body décor.

The second set looked like the dudette on the right : narrow shoulders, legs hugged together, breasts, and barrel-loads of body beautification. This delightful dozen were all six- to eight inches high (14.0 – 20.0 cm).

But here’s the strange thing: all twelve have breasts. On all but one (the dudette in the picture) these breasts are little round, smushed pellets of clay stuck onto the chest. On the twelfth figure, however, the breasts are long, thin, and cut into the chest.

So Dougy Bailey (living in the daddy-god world he does), scratches his head and asks: “Why do the ‘male’ ones have the same size and shape of breasts as do the supposedly female ones?”

Answer: Because, Dougy, in Guiding-Goddess cultures, breasts are symbols of nurturance. And both males and females were expected to be nurturers. Both were raised to be nurturers, and rewarded for being nurturers.

So it’s only fitting, symbolically speaking, to show both men and women with breasts (symbolizing nurturing savvy) of the same size (= same capacity to be nurturingly savvy).

In Guiding-Goddess lands, oxytocin-high mamas were the role models – for men as well as for non-mother women. Boys learned not only to be studley macho men, but also to adore all men and women around them the sane way oxytocin-high mamas adore their infants.

Men learned to nurture, in other words, by watching mamas under the spell of the birthing hormone oxytocin.

And don’t you dare think this made Guiding-Goddess men into mama’s boys. After all, who could leap in a single bound over the backs of bulls? (I’ll give you a clue: it ain’t us).