Finding the Crone
So what about the woman who dances and weaves words in the wee hours of the morning? Who craves the dirt under her feet. Who prays to trees and kneels to oceans.. The woman that craves the smell of burning wood and devours roots.
She has always been there.
Just under the surface trembling and waiting for the other women to give her a touch of space. For the other women to take notice of the missing heart. To crave her, to finally miss her enough that they weep and bleed and crawl on all fours, through the remainder of days as a pilgrimage home where they can finally fall victim to an excruciating beautiful reclamation.
And they burn.. Embers of deep blood red, blue and golden flames licking the sky...they burn.
Filling the air with ashes and sparks and acrid smoke...they burn. And in those wee hours of the morning while the rooted woman dances, worlds crack open never to be seen in the same way again.
Sweet waters drain from the travellers eyes, blood rivers flow from their womb, banshee wails ripple through time. Rooted woman knows they are ready, burnt and raw and ready. So she prays, prays to the spoils that birthed her, prays to the waters that nourished her, and prays to her wilderness protectors.
She spreads her legs wide and shows them everything; wisdom and sensuality and love and healing; what their true feminine power looks like. Her strength and song charm them closer. She takes them by the hair and brings their scared faces into her pussy and demands they drink. This is what life tastes like. This.. this is what you have forgotten.
This wild one is moving, dancing to feel her life, she moves like her body is remembering. She dances to the drum of the grandmother's feet. Their feet beating on the chests of all the women who have gone silently before them. They whispered prayers and honoured their moon soaked howls of remembering. They continue to tremble at the fires edge, weaving stories of old and new, wailing out centuries of shame.
We dance because it’s time to rise.
It’s time to rise.
Rise to and through forgiveness.
Don't stop there...don't you dare.
Rise inside of love and honour
Be here among the grandmothers to wash away the guilt and shame and dance until the dance becomes breath.
That it's not too late, in fact, the dance is just in time. That it is only now that we are capable of bending into its power. To never keep hidden the dance as it is the only lesson we must pass on. It is in this time that we must teach our grandchildren. Teach our grandchildren what life should smell and sound like. What stories are worth saving, to have patience, resolve and that this sacred knowing will always be there to bring you home.
Because home is your wild heart and the beat of your drum can never be abandoned again. So dance all my beautiful ones, dance with your whole body. Blow out every song, every grief, every painful moment. Howl it all out into the dark crisp air, see the moon ripple in the waves you conjure.
Breathe in your femininity, your sensuality, your wisdom, your healing. Take hold of your tired, glowing, raw, beautiful masculinity and strum out a song your heart has been craving to sing.