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She shows me a worldwide storm, and she names women the ambassadors of holy disruption. She shows me tribes of righteous feminine agents wearing bloody flower crowns and showing their aching parts to each other.
I am not the only one who lives here, my love. You know I share this holy ground with the Mother-Healer and Crone-Priestess, but the Masculine lives here too. The old Sage spiral-dances at the edge of death with his Crone consort, and the competitive, Protector Father makes love with the ...
May communities of the spiritually autonomous rise against those led by predators, and may the waters of self-hood and wild spirituality groundswell to flood the unholy centers where their lying tongues preach in a language the soul does not speak.
A loving and wild relationship is sustained by two souls doing their own work in this wounded world, coming together to nourish the third entity that is their venerable relationship as if it were a fragile, innocent babe.
You are the medicine woman unleashing a banshee’s cry at the old men marching outside of the abortion clinic. You are the Maiden dancing a body-prayer for clean water, and you will not rest. Your wrath is holy, and you won’t stop howling.
Our captors never thought we would have the Maiden’s mettle to break free, but they underestimated the collective ire of caged women.
Here, in the realm of fallen angels, I am accepted into your warm arms as a freak and heathen, and you are permitted entry into the temple of my body as the Holy Shadow.