Praises for the Working Woman

It’s very hard to find quoted material that praises the working woman. Let’s enrich this derth of literature by creating honest to goodness praises for different professions or generally working women.

For example, give praises to you for your job that you are doing well.

Women must lift each other up. Nobody is praising us if we don’t. Praises are like rain on the seed. Praises are psychic currency equal to gold. Look around and if you find it in literature, collect it for me please and bring it here … post it as a comment.

If you don’t find anything, sit yourself down, take a deep breath and praise a woman with an honest heart … “praises are beyond compliments.”

All women work! We are the glue of society. Where are the praises for our universal achievements?!!


Audio: How the Dianic Wicca University Works

[podcast][/podcast]Getting started in the Dianic University

The Dianic Wicca University Online is a place for women of all ages to hone their skills and craft as witches- solitaries, circle priestesses, priestesses -in- training, maidens, mothers, crones, and amazons alike will find spiritual food for thought, activities, lessons, and a world of enchantment. Won’t you join us in sisterhood and self-discovery?

We’ve also made a video to show you how to use the Dianic Wicca Unviersity, making studying online with Z Budapest more vigina friendly.

Goddess magazine for Dianic Wicca

Goddess magazine for Dianic Wicca:

I am only 7 more days in the hospital before I get to go back home. Home! I miss it!!! Six weeks in the hospital was a long vacation from reality, but soon I am back in the swing of things.

I am very much looking forward to doing tarot readings again! Touching my sacred cards, smelling the sweet scent of amber oil and speaking with women in search of themselves. Blessed be!

My you enjoy sacredness today,

Full Moon over Oakland

I was lying in my bed watching the full moon rise over Oakland … what a luxury! I was singing her up inch-by-inch. Asking her for blessings on all my loved ones and me.

Once, when I was a child. I wished on the moon that everyday will be a full moon. I was so in love with her. She must have had a giggle. My love for her never diminished.

Ten more days to go in my hospital bed, but at least I’ve got the moon in my sight.

I’m a TV Junkie

In order to distract myself from my early morning antibiotic drip, I watch Desperate Housewives reruns back-to-back. DH used to fascinate me when they were new, mostly because of the fashions the women were wearing. Nobody looked like a housewife even in an  upper class neighborhood. So, it’s value is pure fantasy. The only character that has realistic lines to say or life to live is played by Felicity Hoffman. Who is the most believable.

Even in this fantasy setting, I can almost hear the writer’s jam sessions as they gestate and produce the character story lines. Which amuses me! I hear gay guys talking to each other; very similar voices as I heard in Sex in the City. Are these the same writers? Michael Cherrie is.

Among the reality shows, Wife Swap was a pleasant surprise. They pick very diverse women who go and live in each other’s houses for two weeks. The second week, the women get to set the rules and everyone must obey them. What I see the producers project to the audience is an expose … class differences cannot be crossed … the very rich and the very poor don’t mix at all, but the religious and the sports freaks, the messy and the tidy come to some common ground easier.

Underlying all these shows is a subtle male bashing. Most husbands are portrayed as insensitive, lazy, often fat and disgusting. In addition to that we have, Family Guy, American Dad and The Simpsons replayed the same theme . The wives always forgiving and loving them for no sane reason.

All these shows are directed to female audiences; a subtle venting of female rage by getting entertained with this shared understanding. For women who are not filled with unexpressed rage, but yearn for some entertainment without putting someone down … there is nothing on TV for them to watch … maybe the Animal Planet?!

Male bashing pays!

Granny Rehab goes back to the hospital

When I had my right hip done in ‘04 in Budapest my brother came into my room seeing me and said, “Good thing you don’t have a third leg!”

Because I had no insurance, I had to go back to Hungary to get both hips done, new prosthesis put in where there was only worn down femur.

The hospital was very poor. After the left hip was done, there was a four days long holyday in Budapest. All the nurses and docs were minimum presence. I was left with a cauterization, some food, the blood thinners, and pain pills until they returned. I enjoyed it, because I was meeting the old country right here in the aging room. Peasants and city gals groaning under the wear and tear of life, and me the “American” mixed in. I could feel the wooden boards underneath my thin foam mattress. I found a position that worked for me, and felt relatively comfortable.

The right hip was different.

The doctors would not touch that for six months, until the left one could carry me. Finally that happened. What a difference six months could make. New beds arrived from Holland. They had real mattresses which were comfortable. Once more, I was I operated on, this time on the right side.

In Budapest, at the Semmelweis Hospital, the doctors have a routine. Each morning the morning nurse comes and inquires how you slept. This is recorded on your chart. Then the floor doctor comes with the morning pills, looking at the wounds to see how they are healing.

On Thursdays, the entire doctor’s cadre come, from all floors with the professor at the had of them and nurses in tow. They looked like fresh scrubbed white angels. They look vigorous and confident. They pause at each patient’s bed and discuss the recovery. The professor orders new bandages, or new pills, the doctor who operated on you speaks up and touches your wound, moves things around.

In the afternoon every day, the operating doctors drop by to check on their patients. There is great joy in this, because it furthers recovery. There was especially one doc who was jovial, and called out to his patients often. “Good Luck!” Because its not only skill, but it takes a lot of luck that to get up from under and start walking on bionic parts.

The “American”, me, was operated on by the Professor Ur himself. This sounded real good, and the operation was real good, but he didn’t come by for five days post-op. His docs did look in on me, but they treated me with distance, not like they treated their own patients.

These post-op five days were very difficult this time. I fell into depression. I felt neglected. I felt jealous of the other docs and their patients, how much attention was showered on them and none on me.

Once again I was a foreigner in my own country. It ripped up my old wounds from my childhood, the war, the revolution, the hardships and lack of protection. I cried openly, demanded that the professor Ur come by and see me. Nothing.

In the meantime, three days post-op I received a fabulous dream. This dream was about 17th century Japan. Marketplace, silks, samurai, fish and ladies shopping. I was so happy, I wanted to walk amongst them, and I walked myself off my bed and fell out of the hospital bed in the middle of the night.

I didn’t feel anything got hurt. They put me back into the bed, and early next morning took me to x-ray to see if I damaged anything. They concluded that all was fine. I paid no attention to it. I moved on.

Sunday the Professor Ur showed up. I felt already better, and I visited an other lady next door, who was my forerunner. She had her left hip done when I had mine, and she was a couple of days ahead of me in recovery with her right hip. Always good to see how it developed for others to raise hope.

Professor Ur felt that he had so many things to do, he didn’t have time to baby me. Teaching at the university, having operations, he had the job once my beloved step-father had in this same hospital. This is why he operated on me; I was special.

Now it’s ‘09, five years after my operation. The left hip is great, the right one however fell apart. That dream and consequent falling out of bed had damaged the fresh operation, and slowly the cement that holds the hip in place has unraveled. I was limping, hurting and finally totally collapsed.

This time, I am old enough to get insurance. I don’t have to go to hungry. I will get it done at Alta Bates, in Berkeley, where the beds are comfy and the drugs are great. Hungarians didn’t give us any morphine. I was taking my own American Ibuprofen.

Tomorrow I enter the hospital for the right hip. A legendary well loved Chinese doctor, Dr. Chen, is my surgeon. He will have to take out the entire prosthesis the Hungarians put in, and give me the American parts. I will be half and half, better technology, better everything.

Still I am feeling scared. Not of the pain, nor the dangers, but the aftermath that no drugs can take away … the rehab part and the searing pain of the first standing up.

I am packing my little grotto of the Lady of the Guadalupe, small and cheerful, hand painted, from Mexico. Also, my nightie, my slippers and my toiletries. One more time!

It appears I didn’t have to have a third leg to get an operation once more.

Granny Rehab is hopeful, but the years now starting to show. The years on crutches hurt my neck, and I wish there was warm water pool nearby to walk in. There is one in Berkeley, but it’s so full of chlorine I get lung burns in it. Plus they have a miserable shower and cold rooms to dress. I wish I knew somebody with a swimming pool and hot tub, who would allow me to use it.

In Hungary they had Hot Springs all over the city. No need to chlorinate, they just have the hot water come in one end and go out the other. Fresh virgin waters from the earth for the first time, such a grace to sit in those.

Today I pack and eat little, and in the morning go under the merciful knife. Good luck!


I like this Holyday. This time the Xians didn’t even bother to hide the old pagan symbols, as they have attempted for xmas for example.

We have the rabbit, a symbol of fertility, and good luck. I used to eat rabbit when I lived in Hungary.

We have the many colored eggs! Eggs are the symbols of new beginnings, and are the rich source of protein. Coloring them however puzzled me. Why make them colored? Or painted? Decorated with magic symbols?

Ah, I get it. We write on eggs like a spell. We want love, we dip them in red paint, green for money etc. The magical symbols that almost every European country is famous for, are all about prayers, via eggs.

But in Hungary there is the no longer appreciated Locsolkodas. This is a custom imitating the act of fertilization, a boy comes to the door, you have never laid eyes on him before, he holds a small bottle of cheap perfume and insists to spray the stuff on you. Women often hate this. You smell like the sewers after a few of these visitors.

The girls give them an egg, and alcohol to drink. The boys get snookered. No wonder this custom still lives. They also get money.
Then they move on and “fertilize” other girls.

The 34th National Women’s Music Festival

July 2, 2009 – July 5, 2009 (I will be there!)
Marriott Madison West Hotel & Conference Center, Middleton, Wisconsin

This is the oldest National Women’s Music Festival, where it all started. If you live nearby or want to enjoy a wonderfully hosted event … make plans to attend The 34th National Women’s Music Festival.

The National Women’s Music Festival, otherwise known as NWMF, will be held indoors at the Marriott Madison West  just outside Madison, WI. There are no rained-out concerts,  no cold showers, and no “porta-janes” at this Festival.

The Festival is a four-day musical and cultural extravaganza that incorporates all facets of women’s lives. It’s a jam-packed long weekend where choices for things to do range from workshops, concerts, comedy, theatre presentations, a marketplace, newly released films and videos, a live auction, spirituality series, writer’s series, animal lovers series, and much, much more!

Most Festival attendees are women, although men can and do attend.  Attendees come from all walks of life and cultures, cutting across ethnic, racial, sexual, age, and ability boundaries. Likewise, festival programming reflects many points of view; a diversity of ideas and topics are explored and discussed in a safe environment.  Festival is an environment in which philosophies and politics are open for discussion, not mandated or judged.

Services available include a wide range of accessibility services with almost all concerts interpreted for the deaf.  Volunteer opportunities and work-exchange of 4-hour workshifts is available for reduced-price registration. This is limited and arrangements must be made prior to the festival.

Past performers include Betty, Cris Williamson, Kate Clinton, Karen Williams, Sweet Honey in the Rock, Linda Tillery, Jamie Anderson, Holly Near, the Dance Brigade, Melissa Ferrick, Sawagi Taiko, Ferron, Ellis, Ember Swift and Margie Adam to just mention a few. Guest speakers have included Geraldine Ferraro, Rita Mae Brown, Col. Margarethe Cammermeyer, NPR reporter and writer Margot Adler, Katherine V. Forrest, artist Judy Chicago, Surgeon General Jocelyn Elders, Pat Califia, Betty DeGeneres, Anita Hill and Judy Goldsmith.

National Women’s Music Festival is produced by Women In the Arts, Inc. a 501-c-3 nonprofit corporation. The 2009 festival will be the 34th festival which was first produced in 1974 in Champaign, Illinois.

How I Met the Sacred Ginkgo Tree

How I Met the Sacred Ginkgo Tree

By Z Budapest

I love trees. Since childhood they were my first trusted friends. I was like an only child, nobody to play with but the trees. They were faithful friends, always there for me.

Today, when I teach the Holy Book of Women’s Mysteries course in my Dianic University (, I tell my students to get “jiggy” with trees. Just like from my childhood, that’s how I met the sacred trees in my life and how I develop my friendships with them.

I have in Oakland, a special friend … a Golden Poplar tree, or tulip tree as it’s also called. She is tall and happy, and when I come she makes her leaves tremble for me. Today she is naked, as its winter, and I tease her about how pretty she looks without a leaf on.

She has an abandoned hawks nest too, only visible now that she is naked. I saw a returning hawk sitting there last spring contemplating resettling the old homestead, but she changed her mind.

My most beloved mama tree is a Cork Oak tree. She lives in the local cemetery. She branches out like legs opened to the sky, and I nestle my head in her crotch and sing into it. I tell her my troubles, and she gives me new songs. I lay against it to feel how power she is connected to the Earth. I can spend a long time in her presence.

But the most surprising tree friendship happened to me while visiting Budapest.

A friend and I were looking at trees, identifying them from a book I’d just bought. I was sitting on a marble bench, looking at leaves and trying to match them up with the leaves in the book. When just out of nowhere, without a wind, a leaf spiraled down most ceremoniously and landed at my feet.

It was a fan shaped pretty thing. It looked very familiar to me. I had seen it before, often.

What was it?

Then it came to me. It was a Ginkgo leaf!

The tree was very lanky. All tree trunk. Where was the crown?

I picked up this leaf and felt its happy greeting to me. I strained my neck looking up, and there up, up in the high canapé of the treetops, there was a Ginkgo waving down to me. She wanted me to know she was growing here, all the way from China!

I am a great admirer of the Ginkgo. Its gene pool has been unchanged for millions of years. They survived Ice Ages! They got the perfect tree right away, no more evolution needed. She had many healing properties, which all led to longevity. She could regulate life within us. She was taken for millennia by humans for many ailments, and especially for wonderful effects she has on the brain and nerves. But I loved her for her beauty.

So I pressed the leaf into my Tree book. So glad to know it can grow in Hungary too.

I am dreaming of planting more Ginkgoes all over my old country. The old Cork Oak could also make it there, and Poplars already have, but not the Golden variety. I pray to the Tree Goddess to allow me this privilege, money and support to help reforest Europe.

Granny Rehab goes to a PantheaCon

In the full force of a Californian winter, in the thickest of the rainfalls, PantheaCon convened.

This is the largest witches gathering on Earth. More then two thousand pagan folks, from many traditions come together to share workshops, rituals and just visiting. Lots of young women and men, spilled out from San Jose airport, faces saying, let me get to my room, and change and hope I am not missing any hot parties or rituals.

The elevators worked full blast until one of them got “possessed” and would take people only to two floors, the bottom one and the highest one on the tenth floor. And, that’s where the private parties were held.

Granny rehab had herself a brand new wheelchair. A nice one from Craig’s list. The chrome shined, the brakes worked, the leather seat was comfortable. We used its back to hang on more things we needed to carry. Granny Rehab went in style.

Granny Rehab was presiding over two major rituals. One was well worn in, for five years, the Self-Blessing ritual, for women only.

The purpose of this one is to confront our reality, our bodies and change the paradigm with which we as women look at ourselves.

It’s possible you know to bamboozle even the smartest of us with constant barrage of negative female body messages. They show us the magazines in which even the thin models who had no other food for years but a leaf of lettuce, even those are air brushed to make them look ethereal, slimmer, or just dead. Women in those low-weight mass don’t even bleed every month. Mother Nature thinks fertility is wasted on them since they don’t nourish themselves. You’ve got to have a little fat for being able to nourish a baby.

So who is the good woman? Or the good enough woman? It’s a dead woman.

We have asked the women to step in front of a tall mirror, naked, and bless themselves with holy water, a mix of water and wine. Both are symbols of transformation.

Then dipping their fingers into the holy water, touch five points on themselves, while we all sing the Blessings song.

First the head.

Bless me mother for I am your child.

This one is received with arms stretched out, hugging the invisible.

This is momentous. We declared ourselves the child of the Great Mother, not a father. A potent heresy. This is when the magic begins. The self-transformation.

Bless my eyes to see your ways!

The women touch their eyes, lingering behind the darkness of their palms.

How often do we not see? Do we see the planet in her beauty, in our senses, and without? Do we KNOW who she is, this invisible omnipresent entity, this planet whose origins are our origins? How mind blowing is this? We are the same stuff, as the stars. Lunar primates, arrived at the historical geological scene just last few minutes, and already over ran the Earth with our kind.

We need to SEE her Ways.

Respect, adjust, flourish.

Bless my nose to smell your essence!

Here we are talking about smelling the Life around us. Smells have the most brain cells assigned, smelling gives deep knowing. Her essence smells good to us. It’s exciting and pleasurable.

Bless my lips to speak of your name.

Touching the lips, wetting them with wine and water. Joy and life juice.

Here the women take a deep breath. All our fears about cancer rises up in our throats as we sing.

Bless my breasts, formed in Strength and Beauty.

Indeed bless our breasts. Mammalian breasts. Species maintaining breasts. Much maligned and criticized tits. To big, to small, to old to young. Never good enough, poor tits. They need work. They need lifting. They need correcting; they are just not good enough.

If women spent the money they spend to “correct” their tits for the current fashion fascists, on KNOWLEDGE, we could have found the cure for cancer by now.

Bless our tits with health. For strength, and beauty.

Bless my belly for Pleasure and Life.

Ohh, ohhh the BELLY! Poor belly has a war waged on her daily. Belly which is the center of transformation, we put in our food there and we get energy to live and love, and make money. Food equals life, equals a happy tummy.

Millions of dollars are spent on tummy tucks, diets, workout gyms. We think we have to use less room in the universe. We believe that having a flat tummy will bring us love. This has been like this ever since I came to this country. At one point I lived on metrical for a month, lost all the second baby fat, got flat tummy. NO matter. Nothing has changed. You can be slim and very unhappy. Very lonely.

Bless my feet to walk in your path.

Here it is. The mission. Find your mission, and pursue happiness, walk the path of Peace. But wars follow us, and now the climate change is coming. Older folks hope they won’t see it, Granny Rehab worries that

She will see it, and perish. Like those skeletons from Pompeii, who didn’t flee as the rest of the citizens.

Women want to walk in the path of peace. Often we don’t know how. We attack each other, we accept the lie that women need men to survive emotionally, and hence we can never be friends with each other but only contestants. If you are gay, at least this part is not a pressure, since lesbians learned how to hang together one ex-lover at a time. A family of women. One clique at a time.

Finally the ritual ends as it has started. Arms to the sky, singing …

Bless me Mother for I am your child!

Embracing the transformation, feeling the connection to the divine.