Embracing Passion: The Fist in the Velvet Glove.
Today Passion arrives adorned in the scarlet blaze of fury. On her feet she wears her indignation, calmly crushing injustice beneath her heel as she strides forward.
Her fine wrists and throat are draped with the sparkling jewels of ire, which glint like her eyes in light of oppression and transgression. Within her hair she has elegantly braided her rage, and crowning her head is the tumultuous wreath of advancement. She stands, poised and ready for change. Her stance is serene — she will not use the sword she has strapped around her waist and there will be no bloodshed. Not today.
No, she is quiet and she listens, she hears and she bides her time. She has her weapons at the ready: a sharp and open mind, and a keen tongue of finely crafted steel — a blade so fierce it will cut down her opponents in a single slice. And within her deft hand is held the gleaming scepter of revolution.
Passion is a formidable and ferocious ally to change and liberation. Yet she was not always this way.
In her youth — her Maiden days — Passion took the shape of a warrior. Frenzied and furious, she brandished her axe of wrath, attempting to cleave down those who stood against her. She was strong and self-assured, focused and confident. She would take the world by storm! But she was also blinkered impetuous and parochial. She was naïve.
Her battle cries were crude curses and high-pitched screams of profanity, hurled with rancor and disgust at her opponents. She denounced those who spoke against her with obscenities, spitting her hatred to the ground. She was condemned to ceaselessly fight for her cause, always striving to rip down the strongholds built around those who would fight her — wrestling hand, tooth and nail with their ignorance.
She lived in a cycle of force and of struggle. The rampaging battles she fought over and over were long and arduous. She suffered injuries and wounds that left her exhausted and depleted. She became battle-weary and disillusioned. Scarred and embittered. Those dark days seemed endless.
She lost Hope.
Rising again in the aftermath of battle, Passion limped away to lick her bleeding wounds. She had been cut down and diminished. Her internal fire faltered. It sputtered weakly, and her flames grew pale and wan. She knew no other way than that of combat and anger, derision and assault. She had used her resources of brutality and vicious sentiment, but they had not served her well. Now she was laid low.
But true Passion is not for the half-hearted, nor the tepid of spirit. Those who know her intimately find that she may be quelled for a time but never vanquished. She may be repressed but never quashed. So, in her years of quietude and of healing, she was not defeated. She was not crushed. No, she was learning.
Passion grew in her wisdom.
She learned a narrow mind leads to narrow ideals. She learned that sincerely listening and observing are skills that would serve her. She learned to pay attention to the meaning behind others’ words. She learned that silence could be compelling, and stillness could be dynamic. She learned the potency of understanding — comprehending the fear and pain of others. She learned that fury could be honed into something marvelous.
It was a tool, and not a weapon. It was a catalyst. A fuel. And the white-hot fire it produced within her could — with practice — shape her own words and actions so they became something of strength. Something that would stop others in their tracks.
As she gained each lesson she felt herself reignited, and now she has found her true power.
Today Passion arrives adorned in the scarlet blaze of fury, yet swathed in her mantle of wisdom. It is not an iron fist she has encased in velvet gloves, because iron shatters far too easily. Her fists are Neutron stars. Upon her soft lips is a forbearing smile, but don’t be fooled! Behind her eyes is the gleam of determination and resolve — they reflect the blazing light within her. For within her core burns an intense furnace.
This is not a flame that will consume her, but one that will erupt from her when the time is right, devastating those who seek to suppress her. Her tenacious spirit is molten with courage, and her heart is fierce. She is a force to be reckoned with. She is a formidable and ferocious enemy to ignorance and oppression. To suffering and persecution. To injustice and abuse.
And she is calling you to embrace her and unleash your storm.
She is calling you to action.
Verity Louisa is a weaver of words, a spinner of stories, and a forger of fantasy. She is a fabricator of fables, a maker of magic, and a lover of legend. She is a creator of mess and of laughter, a crafter of tears and of tantrums. She is a mystic mama. She is a woman-child who loves fiercely and drinks deeply from the cup that bears the sweet nectar of the profound. She lives in a beautiful British Celtic county, and embraces life here with open arms, because its ancient rhythms pulsate and resonate through her. You can connect with her on Facebook, Twitter or via her website.