Mary, Mary

I hug myself in a stream of sunlight and I go to that place where I lay rest my words, I don't know where they come from, but I feel it, like a scab feels a blister and heals,

then, soon, or after.

My words heal and they matter.

A shield not long due, between the middle of my brow,

and centred between the lines of my lips.

I remember, I remembered.

Yes, I am a woman now.

____

Is there something wrong with me Mary?

Is there really something wrong?

My petals fell from a distance.

I was always too far gone.

Now I ripple away in the silence,

just like a forgotten song,

but that still seems to permeate everything.

Still so good, even though I'm socially wrong.

Hungry Wolves

I like the screaming.

''A good deal of literature on the subject of women's power states that men are afraid of women's power. I always want to exclaim, ''Mother of God! So many women themselves are afraid of women's power.'' '' *

This is true, and I'm guilty of having been one of those women, and for not realising this, until now.

When women stand up for themselves and become more attuned to their own inner strengths, they receive a mutual respect from both men and women alike. When women are at ease in their own skin and when self respect for oneself nourishes their being, this is not only attractive, but also admirable and inspiring.

And standing up for ourselves doesn't mean we have to be loud, bold, boisterous beings - like butch lesbian nuns on speed; unable to control such 'feminist' issues/beliefs.

But to hold a true belief for what you truly believe in, with pure feeling, deep in your soul and psyche, which in turn feeds your intuition; your virile hunger, enabling you to see in the dark, and to venture into those woods with sheer honesty, ready to face even the most gruesomest of hags without running away with your tail between your legs, facing whatever fears are projected into the ugliest and strangest of forms, and facing them with grace, gratitude and indestructible dedication.

''She presents herself honestly, and just as herself.'' *

If you ignore this power, this power in yourself so great that you can't even face, it will eventually begin to eat  at you 'til it's at your very core, so that sooner or later, you'll have to face it.

And it can show itself in many different guises.

 Your deepest fears will become greater and more profound.

And it's nothing sinister that is out there to 'get you;' it is nothing separate from yourself, for it is yourself.

This power that you shun turns itself into your fears, and this is why we must face our fears, head on, in order to develop and recognise our power; simultaneously overcoming our fears.

''..learn to stay close to what you once feared.''

You can choose the path of ''flying paw-pads and frightened tails,'' or you can choose to venture on, into the vast unknown; into that valley of the dead, and you can run among the wolves; other women like yourselves. And you know that they are out there, you know, deep within yourself that you will not be entering a valley of eternal solitude - you may at first have to enter this valley alone, that in itself is wise - but once there, you will be dancing, you will be dancing with the wolves.

x

''To be strong does not mean to sprout muscles and flex. It means meeting one's own numinosity without fleeing, actively living with the wild nature in one's own way. It means to be able to learn, to be able to stand what we know. It means to stand and live.'' *

It's feeding time in the woods, are you hungry?

* Quotes from the book - 'Women Who Run With the Wolves' by Clarissa Pinkola Estes

Cocoa Kisses

Now her desires are her friends.

What is it about nudity that gets peoples attention?
Kept hidden in a pebbled bush.
Is nudity the light; the awakening of the body?
And explicit is the dark?
Contrasting as it may seem, yet darkness is the nest, the hibernator, the holder of all the workings; all the intricacies of life.
And light is the outlet; the dawn of our awakening; the spotlight of our expression.
Life is a stage, and as we age throughout the stages and the plays, we have access to the most seemingly precious gifts of all; make-up, costumes, props - these make up our characters, yes; our chosen moths, and yet what we are never ready for is the action, how could we ever prepare for such a thing?
Distracting are these 'precious things,' that fill in the gaps of our dual nature.
And as naked as fawn is to deer, then so am I to life.
Make-up and costumes and props are nice,
but my heart dwells in nature's nest; in the ebb of light, and darkness.


''Aren't you cold tree?'' I ask


Stone and clay are part of the earth too.
Have I only just realised this?


                       *

Ah, so now you have reached sand time.
You are in sand time now.


''Remember, it won't always be like this child.'' she said.

And she left me not with a kiss, but with a stain of cacao, just above my lips.
Sweet cocoa kisses, bitter cocoa kiss.

''I like it all,'' I said;
''The bitter and the sweet.''

And as her tongue met mine, we did indeed kiss,
for she was the bitter and I the sweet.
And sooner or later, we were bound to meet.

Mother's Mirror

''Where are the ducks going mummy?'' asked dear sweet Charity.

''I've no idea, my lovely little cherub, but wherever they're going, they're going there in threes, and that can only mean one thing.''

She looked at her daughter with a knowing so deep as she said this, that it almost frightened the little girl, for the look she gave her expressed too great the emotion that humans have only come to know as something now separate from themselves.

But the little girl knew all too well, as did her mother, that this ''separateness,'' this grace we call divinity, truly does exist, on earth, and within humans themselves, and they knew not to be afraid of this; of that which truly exists, even if no one else believes it, for whatever you believe in this world has every right to exist; has every right of an existence shell; has every right to be, to breathe and to feel.

That's the magik in real life magik,

it has to exist in order to tell,

it has to exist in order to tell.

''I may not know where the ducks are going mummy, but I know now for why they fly.''

And as little cherub's face reflected in the water, she recognised her mother's gaze.

Do you recognise the little girl in this story?

Such a lovely little face.

x

Salvia

She is the milk from my water

and she never leaves me,

not even when I faulter.

She is the pixie in my maiden,

my forest from the garden.

She is the in-between

of my palm and my breast,

and the elevator of roots,

when they begin to harden.

She is my mother,

She is my milk,

She is my moth..

...And how completely we seem to carry our flame.

x

The Red Shoes

15.03.13

Lastnight before bed I read a story, a story called 'The Red Shoes' by Hans Christian Anderson.

A beautifully sad, yet strong and powerful story, about a little girl who was given a pair of red shoes. 

She wore these red shoes on her feet, and they made her dance, but they began to take control of her and her life; making her dance when she didn't want to dance, until she couldn't stop dancing.

In the beginning she loved them, and when they received attention from a handsome young soldier; even more so, but they begin to cause her great pain. She becomes tired and weak, and she soon becomes ill. They drive her into the forest where there she meets the executioner who chops the heads off wicked people. But instead of chopping off her head, the girl begs for him to chop off her feet, so as to stop her dancing.

He grants her wish and he carves her two new wooden feet and crutches for her to walk with.

But the shoes on her feet themselves don't stop dancing, they danced over the field and into the deep forest.

When the girl arrives home, feeling shameful for the things she missed and ignored in her life due to being so caught up in herself and her red shoes, she decides that she will show her face at Church and repent her sin, but every time she went, the shoes were there, dancing in front of her, and she grew terrified and turned back. So she went to work at the parsonage, where there she worked good service with good people, and the people grew fond of her, she was a good soul to have around.

One evening they asked if she would like to go to Church with them, but she still felt quite ashamed and terrified, so she spent the time alone by herself in her little chamber where she sat and read, and with the window open the wind crept in and with it brought the sounds of the organ and songs from the Church.

''And with tears in her eyes, she lifted up her face and said...'O God, help me!' ''

Sunlight soon entered the room, and she felt the presence of God within and all around her, and suddenly, she found herself in the Church, with all the people and melody of song surrounding her. She felt at last that she was loved and welcomed, and the fear of the red shoes was gone, and she felt, for the first time, that she didn't need the red shoes to be loved anymore.

The timing of my reading of this story was quite relevant. 

After having been ill last week with a horrid stomach flu, I lost a bit of weight, around 6lbs. I didn't realise it at the time, but this was quite dangerous for me. Although now recovered, anorexia still lives within my blood, and having that feeling of losing weight again - a vast amount at that, in such a short space of time - it re-kindled kindred spirits, and the ghost of her came seeping through my veins, and I only became conscious of this yesterday.

As I began to feel better again last week, I started to monitor my eating habits, through fear of putting back on the weight that I'd lost, I was clinging to those old feelings again, hoping to gain a sense of control. I became a little more aware of my appearance, boosted up my exercise; pushing myself with ballet, a little too much. But as the week went on, I grew tired, I felt sad, and I lost the joy in things that I normally love, my stamina at work was dropping and all I could think about, was 'the red shoes.'

By the end of yesterday, I got home and I thought, 'this is ridiculous, this has to stop, I can't do this.' 

I've worn the red shoes before, I danced myself almost to death, and I don't want to go back there again. I've been to the woods and I've met the executioner before, if I went there again, he would be sure to chop off my head.

So I let go, I looked at my life as it is now and I realised that it's far too beautiful, far too much worth living for than to risk losing all I have to go dancing again; to go dancing again with the ribbons of death. So I looked at the shoes, those red shoes, and I bid them to leave, and I wasn't afraid, nor was I angry. I sent them away with care and with grace. For I realised, that I can already dance, and I'm already dancing with a beautiful partner called life, and just like the little girl in the story, I made peace with God again, because I asked for help.

''Her soul flew on the sunshine to God, and there was no one there who asked about the red shoes.''

x

Honey Worm

''...a visible sign of invisible grace.''

I want someone to share my honey with.

She swerved and swerved and swerved and swerved
until there was nothing left in her tiny head.
''There's nothing left, there is nothing left!'' She squirmed.
Wriggly little worm.
She squirmed and squirmed and squirmed and squirmed.
That's the mystery of knots and curves,
you can never tell, how they form, or where they turn.

Where is the beginning and where is the end?

Hell hath you know nothing.

''To be holy is to be natural...''

I circumcised my habitat,
for a loathsome feast of beetles and beasts.

Hell hath you know nothing.

Whiffs of subtle shit, I smell.
Take me not back to hell.
Take me not back to hell.

''...to befriend the worlds that come to balance in you.''

I didn't have the ability to freeze, 
even under enormous pressure.
Every single bullet in my life, I endeavour.

Children are founded,
when released from their shell.

I ain't ever going back to hell.

Waking the Witch

Do you ever pray for morning, in the blackness of night? In the sourness of midnight contemplation?

Have you ever recognised your undying self, in the silky mirrors of June?

Her handwriting was neat, but her words made no sense to me, they were fuzzy, hazy, smoky - unrested.

Mind is quietening, wretching,

freeing herself of unquietened rejection.

Fall for a whim, dear witch,

and thy shall be saddened for always.

Fall for an apple, dear woman,

and thy shall be blessed

by the eternal snake,

that lives, and writhes within OUR BLOOD

I am your saviour, I am your carrier.

I am your niche and I am your cradle.

''To sleep now, would mean sudden death.''

WAKE

WAKE

Dear sisters,

WAKE

WAKE

AWAKE!