I suppose this sinful Witch will have much to answer for, but if I am to be tossed down to the devil’s house, I would like to get on with it.
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.
Our captors never thought we would have the Maiden’s mettle to break free, but they underestimated the collective ire of caged women.
I summon them, these women I was told to shun, and I take my seat at this Last Supper of Holy Whores, this so solemn Samhain celebration that is my highest ritual.
The deadliest sins of the wild woman are far more loathsome than those committed against any external deity, for they are those she commits against herself.
She can accept the ugly shadows as parts of her but not this cosmic blessing kneeling before her. Still, she does as she is told, nourishing herself with the Shadow of Divinity; she tastes like sacred nectar and ceremonial chocolate. She tastes like holy water and the body of the Magdalene.