By Alison Nappi
Women Embody the Divine Feminine. We are not only ourselves. We are a collection of qualities entrusted to us by the women who came before: our mothers and grandmothers, and their great grand-mothers and so-on, all the way back to the first dawn. The gifts and the struggles endured by these women are patterned within us.
These are women no one ever speaks of, women nobody remembers. Women who held secret vigils for the lost, and lit candles and set souls free from broken bodies.
They were women who were tortured to death. Mousy women who cowered in corners, seeding light into hearts gone dark. Women who were made to crawl, to beg, to plead. Women who were cut down on cobblestone streets.
They were wild women and rogue goddesses and medicine women singing songs that bloomed from their Earth-Mother wombs. They were women who knew too much, and stayed true to their own knowing.
They are the women who were set on fire. Women who died with children inside them, with stories inside them, that could have saved my life--could have saved yours--in another time and place. Or today.
She who forged us tells us all when it is time to blaze or be carried out to sea by the moon.
The modern woman living in America is exposed to violence on a daily basis. This word, violence, conjures up very specific, extreme images that were made to blind us to the violence we are exposed to every day so that we do not recognize it.
When men attempt to regulate our bodies, it is violence.
When we are emotionally stripped and forced to stand naked for a jury of judgment that is not our own, that is violence.
When we are told to cover our faces with chemicals so we are then "pretty," that is violence.
When we must ask our employers to use the bathroom, that’s violence.
When we walk on eggshells, terrified of waking the sleeping monster, it is violence.
When we are harassed by creditors, it's violence.
When we are shamed into swallowing our fear and guilt and pain, this is violence.
Anywhere inside you where there is a wall, a hole, an oozing wound, there has been violence. Let us begin to recognize that violence is more than a bodily injury. It is an injury of the psyche and spirit, without which physical violence would not be possible. Open your inner eye and you will see the real bloodshed.
Unlike men, women do not have built-in societally sanctioned social structures to help them release their anger, and most of us do not feel safe doing so.
As a result, anger becomes deeply buried rage that lives and flares and pulses wildly in the underworlds within us. When this rage emerges suddenly, unexpectedly, we are usually be-littled with terms like "crazy" and "bitch" or, in the spirit of the ever-popular classic egoist masculine, we are accused of being "hormonal," a get-out-jail-free-card for those who are terrified in the presence of feminine wildness. These attacks are a form of word magic made to diminish women, and we are patterned into accepting them.
Once we hit a certain level of repression, we have to make some choices because containment is no longer an option. The rage that we are so afraid of is the blazing fire we need to power the rockets of our desire. It is explosive, bright and furious, wild and untamable, and the world is afraid of it.
A woman who lets her fire blaze is on the verge of becoming the wild fire that endangers the artificial landscapes created by the masters of the Age of Irons. It means that, as we burn, false constructs that formerly restricted our blood flow and held us captive are turning to ash.
Women need not consent to the death-by-ten-thousand-paper-cuts approach to life. We can easily stave off this darkness by remembering who we are and what we represent here on this planet at the turning of the tides. All we need do is turn our eyes back to the wise moon, who lifts and ebbs the tides within us, and follow the path of the goddess-within.
The feminine path of the spirit is lush and abundant. The goddess may wear grape leaves or dress lavishly and wildly and anything in between, but she does so because of desire, not demand.
She knows life is a feast, heavy with sun-ripened fruit. She deprives herself of nothing and deprives others of nothing.
She is an extension of the generosity of life. She overflows, and is compelled to pour herself out in barren lands.
The feminine understands that she and nature are one-love.
The goddess knows when the time is right, when the fruit is ripe, when it is time to stretch ecstatically into the deep rich soil. She lets the moon move her with the waves of the great sea.
Embodied, the goddess cannot be recognized by any one external physical trait, nor is she limited by a single expression of herself. No one is more feared because no one can shape shift as she can without leaving or losing the Self.
The goddess is a raging storm that flattens structures that have outlived their uselessness.
She sings over the bones of things that are dead and brings them new life, issues them improved form.
She is the power of creation; she is the summoner of deep devotion.
She explodes, ecstatically.
Her tears are not for herself; they are for her children.
The beasts she slays are not for her own trophy case, for she could saddle and ride any monster she wanted, but instead she slays it for those who cower in dingy corners.
Women: we are life and we are death, and there is no lower force that may contain the divinity that we are the embodiment of, and when all is said and done, all that will be left standing is the Goddess.
The Goddess, in flesh and blood and bone. As You.
About the author
Alison Nappi is an esoteric writing coach for women on the cusp and founder of Write with Spirit. Follow her on Facebook for daily inspiration! Visit her at: www.writewithspirit.com
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