Blessed Be the (R)Evolution of Your Truth: A Love Letter to the Priestess of Soul.
Surely, in my past lives I did some great, karmic dismantling, for there are no other means by which I could be so blessed to know you now.
My love, this darkening Harvest Moon has weighed heavy on your wild heart, forcing you to reconcile all you thought you were with these new revelations, these unfamiliar truths that are too asymmetrical to fit into the square belief boxes they sold you so long ago; I know because I felt it too.
To be a Priestess of Soul means to ever-change, to re-wild yourself over and over again, to humbly resign yourself to the not-knowing, to relax into the alchemic fire, and to surrender to your venerable darkness as much as you do to sweet spirit light.
I love you, you trillion-pieced jigsaw of a woman, for your possibilities of being reordered are truly infinite. I am in love with the dry, fallow terrain in your feminine psyche, for it is there the greatest wounds, and therefore the most numinous ego-shattering tools, are buried.
I am in love with the fertile mossy places too — those loamy cradles where my own unstruck heart is held and rocked to sleep by your words, your art, and your so sacred, so holy work. Your raging rivers of unbridled passion, your calm oceans of mysterious melancholy, your steadfast and enduring mountains — woman, I love it all.
Oh, your magick is blinding me! Speak your truth now, dear one, for the world needs to know your mission. No more do we need tiresome, diluted, one-size-fits-all, static verses. Tell me of your joy right now, in this moment. Tell me of your agony, your challenges, and your deep-seated pain. Tell me, woman, tell me now how we can hold each other up today — not tomorrow, but today.
Before I take my next in-breath, I want to see you shake up the pieces of this broken system of ours and let them fall down in a new way; you grab the pieces you can reach, and I’ll grab all I can too.
Today, I want to writhe in whole-body prayer with you, and tomorrow I want to be so stone-still with you that they will think us carved marble statues of the ancient Feminine Divine. Today, I want to flat-palm the drum for hours, in the slowest rhythm I know, and tomorrow I want to swing my hips to the beat of a hummingbird’s heart. Today I want it all, and tomorrow I want none of it.
Change with me, my wild sister, my lover. I will hold to you nothing except your fierce authenticity. What served you once may serve you no longer, and we cannot force ourselves to ever-cling to beliefs about ourselves, our work, and our world when we never wake up the same woman we put to bed. Change with me, and fear not the denigrating words of those who want you to stay the same.
For whom would you sacrifice your presence? Tell them you did not come here to wear concrete boots and heavy chains. Apologize no longer for your rebirth, for you had no more choice in the matter than does a baby being pushed from the womb or a bud in bloom.
It is true; your soul’s growth and evolutionary truth may hurt those you love, and those who love you may dig their claws deep into your outmoded ways of being. Tell them a relationship with you is not always one with a soft-breasted, unconditionally compassionate, and many-armed Mother.
Tell them a relationship with you is one with the sensual, fire-eyed Maiden who feels so deeply that her raw heart aches for those she has never met. So, too, a relationship with you is one with the hooded, wise Crone who is omniscient, fierce, and ethereal. Tell them you may see and hear things to which their senses are not attuned, but do not say you are sorry for knowing these deeper truths.
Woman, let’s invite the Grim Reaper into our marital bed every so often, for we need to be shown death, blatantly and often, so we can appreciate this wondrous life we have been given. We are Priestesses of our own hallowed souls, and our Ministry of Sex and Spirit has been founded on the cosmic, spiral dance of birth and death.
We sing hymns to honor our ancestors and the old ways today, but we may forget the words tomorrow. We sink into no practice that threatens our soulful integrity, and, my love, there will be times when we want nothing to do with each other.
I will not be heartbroken when you leave me, for I know we will come together again when it is time. I may worry for you when you sink into your depths, but I will never try to fix you. I may not understand your truth completely, but I will never invalidate it. I may weep for you and draw rainbow patterns around your scars, but I will not discount your divinely ordained right to darkness.
Any truth you feel with your whole body is real, and, my love, I can feel a resonance in my bones now. The Priestesses of Soul like you, like me, we are carving out a new place for ourselves where we need not conform to any identity given to us.
We have yearned for the raw and real for so long, staring down at a seemingly unreachable feminine utopia from a cliff’s edge, that we nearly forgot we could build our own wild home right here on the plateau.
You know where to find the mudbricks, Priestess, and I know where to plant our garden. Still more of us know where to hang the protection totems and dig for water. We will have but one house rule, and it is this: You come and go as you please. Stay when your soul calls you home, and go when it calls you out into the night. We will not question your motives, and we will not send out a search party.
If you tell us you are a mermaid, we will believe you and watch you flip your tail in the ocean. If you tell us you are a winged sylph, we will believe you and watch your ascension. Whatever the shape your soul takes today, my love, is beauteous, unadulterated, alchemical perfection.
I bow to you, my Matron Witch of Wolf-Women, and I have crafted body-prayers in honor of your evolving truth. I love living in this house with you, this Temple of the Holy Wild, for here we have come home to ourselves and honored our liberation by invoking soul-growth with every breath.
Here we have opened to the waxing and the waning of our Maiden’s creativity, our Mother’s love, and our Crone’s wisdom.
Change is the only constant on which we can depend, dear one, and I am in love with your swelling and your thinning, your peaks and your valleys, your mundane and your she-magick. I am in love with your bravery, your wild, your laughter, and your tears. Most of all, my love, most of all, I am in love with your revolutionary, naked truth.
Blessed be you, blessed be me, blessed be the undying wild.