The Rage in my Blood

Woke up at 5am this morning. Full of panic, fire, rage.
My belly was hurting, in agony. Welcome sweet red.
My moon pierced through in the night and boyh was I filled with all kinds of pressure and gunk and all things wild….
I tossed and turned, trying to get back to sleep, but it didn’t ease. The chaos in my mind would just thump wilder…. so as I pushed my duvet in a semi slumber and reached out for my essential oils, my cat Chico glanced over with a sticky gaze… huh…. watchudoin gal?! way too early to get up yet…
Yeah Chico baby, mama’s gotta take care of some things. I pat his plushy ears, he melts the head back down to doze off and I sweep my morning gown over.
Sat at my office table it started to furiously purge: there blasts my black chaos onto the sheets of an old notebook I had placed there a few weeks ago for scrap paper.

And with wilderness the pen splurged my rage all over the faint blue lines, my emotions, my anxiety, my doubts, my stories, my old stories coming back in waves… gunk after gunk after gunk…. and when the storm passed I realized that this wave of rage hits me every time…. every time I bleed the rage comes, the sadness comes, the loss, the despair…. and I know now, it’s not all mine… it belongs to the thousands of thousand of years of feminine silencing, the power gripping over our breasts of love, all the blood we bled into mama earth across thousands and thousands of lives.

I remember the days I lay blank on the sofa, in a semi-slumbering dream state as a 14 or 15 year old…. when these waves of pain mixed into lucid dreams and sexual arousal that I had no understanding of. The orgasms ease the contractions, I now know; and they release soothing hormones, I now feel. And the psychic gifts hit wilder around this time because, well, the womb is our secret cauldron of magic, where we are attuned to the ancient codes of the Goddesses, Queens and Medicine Women.
It hits me now more and more that this non-fertilised life pouring out of me belongs to the mother and she activates us women to rise higher, to become so sensitive and vulnerable we can’t seem to handle it, and yet we do.
The myriads of stabs and contractions that our ancestors felt possibly.
The mirrors of shadow and hiding and shaming possibly.
The tremors of threat and betrayal possibly.
The beating, scorning and disrespecting…. possibly?
And we are here. Birthing children. Still here.

There’s wise women who say this is in our DNA still.
Who knows.
I do believe.
All I know is I become super lucid during this excruciating painful time, my body knocks out almost, and then this fervor of emotions washes over me, I cry for the little things, I feel so very much, as if the whole planet was mourning this baby, inborn, out of me, all the life I held back from living that month, all the creative ideas that scattered and became nothing, all the yesses that turned to nos and all the nos that never spoke.
And now they return to her through me, through all the women who bleed.

I dreamt so vividly and reached out to a lover and of course it turns out the dream was right. And I feel the feels of people. I get visions so clear and they come and confirm the visions.
I know many of us have this.
I talk to women a lot. I am so fascinated by women and this body we have, with wombs who bleed the tears and moans of the earth. Yes who, because she is a personality of her own, I am certain.
Since I started drinking my flow, it hits me in waves of ecstasy and grief all in one. More and more. It’s so true it doesn’t need proof. It needs to be felt.
There is so much power in our blood, both the rage and the royalty.
Once we awaken to it, the blood wisdom comes. Stronger and stronger.
There’s been suppression of our gender, yes.
This poison is still running chaoses in our little minds, but nothing can truly fill the truth apart from love.

I lost a friend for good this month. She’s not dead.
She wants to be out of my life. It seems, there’s not much I can do about it. Well, it hurts sometimes. Has she’s been taken hostage over this exact scrutiny?
Us women seem to have been brainwashed to give up on our power.
When we see another woman step into hers, it hurts the illusion we might never own it  ourself.
It defeats the inner demon. Those beasts, they need to be kept fed and full so we can function as “good girls, righteous women, respectful citizens” and so, we conform and sometimes we become the predator. We shame. We blame. We scorn. We rage. We hurt.
I’ve done this, too.
Such a dis-ease. An illusion.
And now Mama Goddess comes back. This time to display this lesson from another viewpoint. So I can open my heart to this red bittersweet potency, that was never ever taken in the first place.

Every woman who bleeds, whether she cycles her energetic or real blood, is yearning for this place called life.
The womb full of love. Where she is certain that life force, trust and strength will never be stripped from her again and that she doesn’t need to forfeit her power in exchange for any of her innate radiance. That she won’t be cast into the darkness of the caves because her shine threatened authority. That she doesn’t need to fight, flight or freeze to survive.

The power of the Goddess is silent.
It passed me by for so many years.

I didn’t know how to listen. Nor what to listen for. Mind you, never to even know there’d be anything I could listen to apart from the mumbojumbo of miltary voices in my head, echoing the frenetic doings of my outside world.
I don’t know if I’m fully able to listen all the way yet, even.
But when my womb pulls my hands and my belly together every month and I sit and honor her, when I allow and witness. When I cancel my plans and let the love of her velvet rain wash away over my body, over my life, over my aura and tune in. Let her be, let her rage, let her command how she wants it, let her shoo away what she’s done with.
She cries. She surrenders.
For joy that right here I finally listen.
At least once a month we get the privilege to listen.

The power of the Goddess is silent.
And sometimes.
Sometimes she dances.
And sometimes she sings, too.

Art work by Justin Maller


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s