Posts Tagged ‘ women ’

Crimson Angel; Sunshine Dance

 
As sunlight filters through the bright vermillion curtains, the walls glimmer in the summer light.  I see the sun through the curtains beaming like a firefly set high in the cerulean sky.  The rays spread to the deep burgundy floor, which shimmers in the sun.  My toes capture the warmth, which floods steadily through my body like humidity. My bed, entranced by daylight’s rays, seems to smile at my wardrobe, as a drowsy sunbather might do on a temperate day out of the sun.  Minute particles of dust waft in and out of view like dancing, glittery fairies, very much alive for their daytime parties.  Photographs on the wall, though some cracked, many a tie caught me reminiscing over times now lost, though memories staying fresh incessantly, never decaying.  
 
They, too, seem at ease basking in the majestic sun’s beam.

“…far beneath the bitter snows, lies the seed that with the sun’s love, in the spring becomes the rose…”

I don’t remember a lot of things; usually I cannot help but be clutched by the whittling hands of life.  Sometimes when I sit perfectly still and trick myself into a soft slumber, my dreams swiftly manage to escort me away from my weary life to places where the memories that I can never grasp are born.  In my dreams I may visit a lush though over growing garden, deep in the crevices of May.  The amber sun bores heartily on my back as I explore the garden. I lean over the harlequin grass to move the messy thorns with such care not to harm myself, I spy an object of such beauty that not even the garden’s excitements could not compare. As a larger quantity of thorn-ridden branches fall clumsily to the grass, something amidst the tiny alcove where the thorns were sparkles.

Such an object would be found being sculpted by angels in the depths of heaven; it’s a rose.
 
The rose shimmers as I reach out to caress one of the seemingly everlasting rose petals.  To touch the cerise petal would have the same effect as if you were to stroke a dove’s feather.  I look back to my hands and gander at what they have become; the rose’s angelic magic had gently wafted away from the petals onto my hand.  I could see other beatific glitter which was lightly floating away in the wind to other pastures, much further away, perhaps some with roses that were as blue as an impossible moon emitting a serene ultramarine.
 
Surrounded by thoughtful, tranquil scenes, the depth of my slumber intensified…
 

There’s Something Primal in All of Us…


I believe there is a force in this world that lives beneath the surface, something primitive and wild that awakens when you need an extra push just to survive, like wildflowers that bloom after fire turns the forest black. Most people are afraid of it, and keep it buried deep inside themselves. But there will always be a few people who have the courage to love what is untamed inside us.

(From ‘Katie’ in the movie “Flicka”)

Women Who Run With the Wolves

We are all filled with a longing for the wild. There are few culturally sanctioned antidotes for this yearning. We were taught to feel shame for such a desire. We grew our hair long and used it to hide our feelings. But the Shadow of Wild Woman still lurks behind us during our days and in our nights. No matter where we are, the shadow that trots behind us is definitely four-footed.

Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Phd. Foreward.

“I hope you will go out and let stories happen to you, and that you will work them, water them with your blood and tears and you laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.”  — Clarissa Pinkola Estés

I call her Wild Woman, for those very words, wild and woman, create llamar o tocar a la puerta, the fairy-tale knock at the door of the deep female psyche. Llamar o tocar a la puerta means literally to play upon the instrument of the name in order to open a door. It means using words that summon up the opening of a passageway. No matter by which culture a woman is influenced, she understands the worlds wild and woman, intuitively.

When women hear those words, an old, old memory is stirred and brought back to life. The memory is of our absolute, undeniable, and irrevocable kinship with the wild feminine, a relationship which may have become ghosty from neglect, buried by overdomestications, outlawed by the surrounding culture, or no longer understood anymore. We may have forgotten her names, we may not answer when she calls ours, but in our bones we know her, we yearn toward her; we know she belongs to us and we to her…

…She comes to us through sound as well; through music which vibrates the sternum, excites the heart; it comes through the drum, the whistle, the call, and the cry. It comes through the written and the spoken word; sometimes a word, a sentence or a poem or a story, is so resonant, so right, it causes us to remember, at least for an instant, what substance we are really made from, and where is our true home.

These transient “tastes of the wild” come during the mystique of inspiration–ah, there it is; oh, now it has gone. The longing for her comes when one happens across someone who has secured this wildish relationship. The longing comes when one realizes one has given scant time to the mystic cookfire or to the dreamtime, too little time to one’s own creative life, one’s life work or one’s true loves.

Yet it is these fleeting tastes which come both through beauty as well as loss, that cause us to become so bereft, so agitated, so longing that we eventually must pursue the wildish nature. Then we leap into the forest or into the desert or into the snow and run hard, our eyes scanning the ground, our hearing sharply tuned, searching under, searching over, searching for a clue, a remnant, a sign that she still lives, that we have not lost our chance. And when we pick up the trail, it is typical of women to ride hard to catch up, to clear off the desk, clear off the relationship, clear out one’s mind, turn to a new page, insist on a break, break the rules, stop the world, for we are not going on without her any longer.

 

And So it Shall Be…