warrior woman rising
"Who am I?" she asked herself. In the faintest of breezes, she heard the whisper, “Shamana, warrior spirit.” And she no longer wondered if you’d be back.
I am resolving to get back to basics, swimming long and hard into the deep end of the Heathen ways where I once found such solace.
We don’t need giant carved likenesses of our foremothers in granite on mountains, or statues in town squares. We don’t have giant head envy.
Even after your body decays and flesh shows a vulnerability for the grave, always have a spirit young enough to honor the hedonist and the whore.
For now, we are full of faith in the fertile dark, and we are fed to the brim with all the Primal Feminine food we need to carry us through these longest nights.
Being a woman is exhausting. Messiahs are cows that die to feed the masses with their carcasses, and cows cannot become God.