POEM: A Woman Unto Herself (Part 3)

Part 3 of a 6 part poem about the Divine Feminine and becoming a woman

The Sleeping Gypsy, Henri Rousseau, 1897

III. She Speaks

I am the space between, 
within, 
and among us. 
I am unseen 
and I am Radiance. 
I am warmth 
and I am Grief. 
I am fierce
and I am Ecstasy.
In my knowing, 
I am Wisdom.
In my essence, 
I am Irresistible. 
I am Love, 
the possibility of Loving,
and the act of Loving. 
I am even 
the loss of Love. 

Though I’ve been married, 
I haven’t been a wife. 
I know the comfort of a man’s arms, 
but never mistake that for the ground. 
They built churches to keep me out,
and I stayed happily in the woods.
A sunset is sublime, 
but can’t compare 
to the light in my eyes.
There is no pigment to capture 
the silvery blue 
of my flesh in moonlight. 
Can you see?
Can you feel what I'm saying?

There is holiness in my surrender, 
my sacrifice. 
It is boundless and non-discriminating 
in its pure form. 
Martyrdom is a human condition.
Where it is honored, life flourishes...
rivers flow, plants grow. 
Abundance is my endless provision. 
My essence is Source.
Never depleted. 
I open the womb of all possibilities
and out flow the heavens—nothing less.

This is the true meaning of Virgin: 
Nothing has been taken from me 
that I haven’t given willingly. 
This is the true meaning of Mother:
As I feed my children, I am fed 
with the rapture of Creation.
This is the true meaning of Crone:
I hold the whole world in my heart
without any weight at all.

How? 
By protecting my own fullness
through the sacred act of rest.
In my bones and my body 
I hold the truth of cycles 
like a religion.
Ritual restoration, pampering,
turning my nourishment on myself.
Fields lie fallow,
the moon goes dark,
winter comes,
stillness sighs,
through the pauses I am filled 
again and again. 

When you honor me, 
I am turned on. 
When you refuse or ignore me, 
take me for granted or abuse me, 
I dry up. 
Just like that. 
Then you have to take 
what I would have willingly given.
This is rape. 
There is a bottom to that well. 
Where I am no longer, 
there is not even water enough to cry tears. 
There is barrenness. 
Women cannot conceive. 
Where my sacrifice is taken for granted, 
there is suffering. 
I do not stay where I am not wanted.
Eons pass. 
We must remember what we knew once,
But have forgotten:
Fertility and prosperity 
are one and the same. 

I have been misunderstood 
more times than I can count.
But who's counting? 
This only bothers me 
when I forget myself. 
Because the truth is… 
I can’t actually be understood. 
Not fully. 
In order to understand something, 
one must arrive at the end of the questioning. 
Understanding is devoid of mystery…
and I am that Mystery! 
Ineffable. Unfathomable. 
I cannot be captured in words or images. 
Only symbols and signs. 
Earth, water, fire, air...
The movement.
The gestures. 
The beauty. 
The nectar of remembrance 
flows from my cup. 
I can open, 
a million petals unfolding 
from the flower of my inner being. 
The invitation to a holy communion.
The bee is drawn 
by the flower’s seduction, 
like this the feminine 
penetrates the masculine. 

There is a current 
that runs through every person
that is so wild and free 
it can break things: 
hearts, illusions, obstacles, lies...
That's me.
I cannot be tamed. 
I have a mind of my own.
I am both Life and Death 
in one electric shock. 
No respect for convention. 
Driving humans towards 
liberation or madness. 
(How different are they really?)
What is it that I seek? 
I could say: love, passion, connection...
But, the truth is this:
Myself in another.
I am life wanting to experience itself living.
When that circuit completes—
the illusion of self and other crumbles. 
A supernova of ecstasy, obliteration.
A new beginning.

My feelings 
are my teacher and yours. 
My anger 
is the anger of injustice. 
My grief 
is the despair of our forgetting. 
My joy 
is a celebration of life!
What you call taboo 
is home turf for me.
Your “civilization” is laughable 
when I am enthralled or in throes.
You must pay attention.
My feelings point us 
towards a deeper truth.

There is great medicine in the reunion.
When we return to The Garden.
Beyond sin, beyond ignorance,
beyond blame.
Grateful for the rib.
Grateful for the apple. 
In this together, 
impossible without each other.
I’m sorry.
Yes, me too.

You teach me. 
Not in that way you have of claiming wisdom,
but in the way you hold me… 
the way you protect my precious gifts,
the way you call me into myself, 
the way you serve the same Goddess.
You teach me to know myself intimately. 
You teach me who I am 
when I am adored 
and also when I am ignored. 

Your strength is a balm.
You can move mountains 
and sometimes you do. 
Sometimes you are the mountain,
and sometimes you are the desert, 
expanding for miles and miles and miles...
I walk with your voice in my heart. 
You have vision. 
You are the mage and the hermit. 
You sit at the edge of time 
and can wait forever. 
You witness me dancing 
and your enjoyment is enough 
to keep me going. 
Your sense of duty is profound. 
You are the guardian of this Life. 
You are the field of battle 
and the warrior, too. 
You have forgotten what your gifts are for. 
I am here to remind you.
Your heart’s capacity for love 
is exquisite. 
It’s overwhelming 
for us both. 


Next week, Part 4, The Lovers