The Red Tent

by Anita Diamant

The more a daughter knows the details of her mother’s life—without flinching or whining—the stronger the daughter.

It is terrible how much has been forgotten, which is why, I suppose, remembering seems a holy thing.

“In the red tent, the truth is known. In the red tent, where days pass like a gentle stream, as the gift of Innana courses through us, cleansing the body of last month’s death, preparing the body to receive the new month’s life, women give thanks—for repose and restoration, for the

knowledge that life comes from between our legs, and that life costs blood.”