“It is not female biology that has betrayed the female, as Elizabeth Cady Stanton observed more than one hundred years ago, it is the myths and stories that have been told about her, what has come to be believed about her – even by the female herself.
In the Christian West, it is common for a woman to be described or to describe herself as “just a mother”. It is common for “barefoot and pregnant” to connote powerlessness. Simone de Beauvoir suggested that it was as mother that woman was most fearsome, so it was as mother that she was enslaved.
Yet there are cultures in the human community where a birthing mother is described as a “great warrior” – going to the gates of life and death, to heave and push a soul into the world.”
The Wild will call you back. Through half-remembered dreams and sunsets painted in burnt sienna and vermillion flames she will call you back home. The coyotes will wake you from your sleep with their clarion call to keep your eyes wide open.
How long have you been sleeping? How much have you forgotten?
The Wild will call you back. She will hang you upside down and shake the nonsense from the pockets of your mind. She will strip your soul naked leaving you raw and exposed under the searing glare of the gods. Offer up the holiness of your confusion and questions. Dress yourself in fireflies and attune your senses to awe while you learn the slow seduction of courting your muse.
Brush the stardust from your wings and wipe the ocean from your eyes. Flex your claws dig your roots deep down into the fertile earth and show your fangs. Gather pollen on your legs and speak in venom and honey. Peel back your colonized tongue and let it hiss and purr and growl and scream.
Do you remember how to stalk as predator and how to surrender as prey?
The Wild will call you back. The owls know your real name and will call you from the darkness of night to dance under the moon. Crack your heart open with your ancestors’ bones and dance in the ecstasy of your love and your grief with flailing limbs bloody knees and mud-stained feet. Braid mugwort into your hair and dream yourself awake.
The Wild will call you back. She will teach you how to die again and again and how to die well. There is no difference between your funeral pyre and your birth canal. Do not bother to try and stop the bleeding. Love with the gentleness and ferocity of your whole soft tender being. Feed the spirits with your beauty and sweetness and ask them to show you the way home. ⠀ ~Gina Puorro www.ginapuorro.com
“The Feminine is not here to inject power into your Will. Or to get you all the goodies you desire. It is actually just the opposite. Feminine Embodiment will reveal the sacred poverty of those goodies. One taste of the Real and you will want for nothing else…”
This is a good morning to kiss your demons and change them into dark angels. Do not drive them away or they will return. Lust is not a demon but a dark angel filled with un-created star nectar. Anger is not a demon but a dark angel of healing fire dancing in your amygdala. Grief is not a demon but a dark angel bearing seven oceans of love in one jar. The demon of depression who lives underground keeps Wisdom hostage, binding her dark angel bones in delicious mycelia. The dark angel of addiction brings gifts under one broken wing, and uses the other to help you fly, for one of yours is broken too. If you do not bow to your dark angels, they will possess you and you will have to act them out. So breathe them in, let them become your shouts and sighs, pants of lust and terror in your lungs. Now exhale and dissolve them into the clear ocean of awakening. They don’t possess you, you possess them. Your dark angels have become the blue sky, a swirl of hummingbirds, tree frogs discussing everything. But beware of enlightened teachers who claim no darkness. They will lead you into a deeper darkness, the shadow that hides from itself. Against your beautiful demons a true teacher will never set your heart. A true teacher will empower you to kiss them with that kiss which the mind gives to its most terrible thoughts, so that names, images, teeth marks, hieroglyphs of veins scrawled on the cave of your liver, neurons twisted into Sanskrit etching ancient spells into your hippocampus, the rippling gristle-flower of sound in your bellybutton, all disappear into one Body, this Body, where you taste the starless wine of night itself and give birth to tomorrow’s sun.
maybe it is her birth which she holds close to herself or her death which is just as inseparable and the white wind that encircles her is a part just as the blue sky hanging in turquoise from her neck oh woman remember who you are woman it is the whole earth