The Snake Uncoils For You, Yogini-Witch: Shakti Consciousness And Your Birthright.

You, Yogini-Witch, have been invited to two dinner parties on this Full Moon’s night.

You cannot attend both, so you stare at your raw beauty in the mirror now, indecisive and immobile.

If you choose to take your seat at the Spirit Table, enduring enlightenment and the end of your so-human quest for divine connection will surely come to you.

The thought of accepting this invitation creates a rhythmic pulse in that indigo eye of yours, and your mirrored reflection shows your glittering crown of amethyst light extending straight up to the astral realm.

You tell yourself: Yes, by Goddess, I am a being of light. I belong there. You smooth your pristine, diamond-white Yoga pants over your thighs.

But the Soul Table — you smirk with guilt-laden satisfaction and layer on some matte, garnet lipstick — beckons you. No, you couldn’t possibly…

Your sacral center throbs with a sultry, jewel-orange energy that is beyond sex and yet the purest form of womb-born sensuality there is.

There, in your sacrum-cradle, rests a black-scaled serpent in coiled stillness, tongue intermittently jutting out, tasting, testing. No, this Yogini-Witch is not yet ready, the Shakti Snake hisses.

Taking the no-doubt plush seat at the Soul Table would assure your spiritual downfall, or so they told you.

It will be your undoing, Good Yogini, they say, those sun-positive light-workers. Don’t fall for Her promises of awakening, for they are nothing compared to what we can offer you.

You wipe the lipstick from your pursed lips, now resigned.

You, Yogini-Witch, have left the safety of your home with all intentions of moving steadfast toward the Spirit Table, but you sit now on your too-cold Yoga mat in the middle of the empty, moonlit street.

Why am I the only one who is unsure? You wonder aloud. Your womb-serpent hisses. Gazing right, you see the candle-glow of the Spirit Table, flickering fire illuminating the god-lit faces of the highly evolved and so enlightened.

The stark table around which these renunciates sit has no food, no drink, no sensory distractions. These party-goers don faces frozen in contentment. You click your tongue, twisting your legs into Full Lotus, knees screaming.

If I am going to go in there, I have to practice, you say. These spirit-seekers are surely better than me. Your Shakti Snake rolls Her eyes and goes back to sleep.

You sink into immobile quietude, congratulating yourself.

Your meditation — blissful as it was, my Yogini-Witch — is interrupted then by the sounds of revelry to your left. You frown, unravelling your legs, and your mouth drops open at the sight of those at the Soul Table.

No one is seated, and the scene writhes with all the luscious energy of a serpent’s nest. These creatures, these Soul Liberators, are showing their emotions so freely; they wail and they cackle and they pound the dirt in righteous rage.

More than all of that, they dance with a rolling eroticism that would surely be banned by the most liberal governments. The bellies of the unapologetically braless wobble and shake with the movements of the Sacred.

You blush, and Shakti lifts Her head.

No. You crush your eyes shut and press your fingers into a mudra so hard that your knuckles bruise. No, I am going to be a Good Yogini.

But your womb-serpent doesn’t buy it. You feel Her slither around and through the bones of your pelvis, licking the shadowy places you have ignored for the sake of morality. You open one eye, fixing it on the heathens and the heretics.

Some of those around the Soul Table notice you now. A puffy-cheeked woman holding an overflowing plate of fruit grins at you from behind a bubbling cauldron, and a man in a loosened business suit winks at you before he hugs a tree.

No, you tell yourself. I am not leaving my Yoga mat. But you watch them now, these so powerfully present and yet so sensually aware creatures to your left.

How can this be? They have no aligned asana; they’re just flitting about all willy-nilly, as if there are no rules. Your jealousy kicks in then.

Who do you think you are? You accuse aloud, not really wanting to listen to an answer.

You stand now, leaving the confines of the environmentally safe rubber, and letting your bare feet sink into the sweet, wet earth.

You move toward these reckless ones, and Shakti slithers up to the middle of your spine, pulling some long-buried shame up with Her.

A little girl rolls in the mud in front of you, getting her blonde hair muddy. You’re disgusting! You tell her. Where is your mother?

The scene freezes then. All the dancing and the eating and the kissing and the soul-nourishment ceases. They stare, genuinely perplexed by your question.

The little girl looks up at you from the ground, digging her small hands into the dirt, and speaks in a voice larger than her body: Where, Yogini-Witch, is ‘your’ mother? It is not me who is lost but you, and you know it. My mother is right here!

She tosses a handful of dripping, brown slop at you, staining your perfect attire.

Your womb serpent ascends to your heart, weaving in and out of your ribs and tasting all of your bitter wounds. You weep then, conscious of the attention you are getting.

You let your body crumble to the ground in pure feeling, surrendering to the Shakti consciousness with all that you are, and letting your knees sink deeply into Gaia.

Head bowed, you harvest all of the pain you inflicted on yourself by denying your soulful integrity in the name of spiritual growth. Your body shudders in emotion — untamed and unnamed, and She rises to your throat center.

You feel Her hisses echo from your own lips, and you honor Her voice. She rises even further now, snaking in and out of your eye sockets and tasting the inner surfaces of your skull with Her so-determined forked tongue.

The guests of the Soul Table encircle you now as your crown erupts with a light so brilliant it matches the full moon’s glow, and you feel you have been initiated.

Shakti moves in you now so effortlessly, Her tail twisting in your sacred womb, scaled body caressing your spine, and head — so all-knowing — gazing through your own two eyes.

The little, mud-soaked girl comes to you now, pressing her tiny finger against your chest. She draws a five-pointed star, affirming your birthright.

Yes, you hiss to yourself. Yes, I have come home.

You feel the Shakti wisdom surge through your whole body, and you roll your tongue on the roof of your mouth in slow sensual circles; your wrists follow your tongue’s lead, then your hips, then your whole being pulses with the energy of primal, soul consciousness.

She has uncoiled for you, Yogini-Witch.

Let Her move you. Let Her show you how Shakti dances in your cells. You were born for this. Do not, I tell you, do not let your Yoga mat become a cage. Get muddy footprints all over it.

Better, lie your body on Mother Earth’s lap and feel Her blood pulse in rhythm with your heart-drum. You are of the same stuff. You, my love, are Shakti, and She cannot be forced into stillness at the table of pure, filtered spirit.

Shakti power is soul-power; it is of nature, and it is of you. Sit at the Spirit Table when it serves you, but, I beg you, do not feel that your seat there makes you superior to anyone who chooses to dance in the moonlight.

She’s awake now. Don’t put Her back to sleep.


DanielleDulskyDanielle Dulsky is a multi-passionate entrepreneur, energy-healer, Yoga teacher, multi-media artist, and magickal mentor. She holds the highest designation from Yoga Alliance as an E-RYT500, and is on a mission to inspire women to be fearless creators of their sacred work. She is the founder and creatrix of the Living Mandala Yoga teacher training programs, a Reiki Master in the Usui-Tibetan tradition, and long-time believer in Earth-based traditions. Her work is based on sensing and transforming energetic vibrations, empowering individuals to discover their potential for authentic abundance, using artistic practice intuitively, and holding space for women to unearth their inner goddess through the magick of sisterhood. Danielle leads women circles, witchcraft workshops, a teaching coven, and psychic development intensives in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania where she lives with her partner Ryan, sons Bodhi and Sage, and pet-familiars Jeepster and Raven. She believes that all women alive today are meant to be instrumental in supporting the return of the Divine Feminine. You could contact her via email.


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