The Force of Life

Just received these powerful words from Karen Blum, one of the amazing women on my Circle.

But you can suppress it, and like water, like the feminine, like emotion, it will rise up again, appear, make itself known, seep through, humanifest, womanifest, find its level, and suddenly what was only hinted at, longed for , deeply hidden, becomes splendid and on display, in the midst of a streaming white light dripping with blood of menses, of murder, of childbirth, of ripped hymens, of bleeding hearts, of ecstasy lost and wisdom comes pouring forth again as women reuse and refind their voices, their byways and scarcely trodden highways, their footpaths, their natures, their longings, their strongings, their weakness, their meekness, their pouring forth into abundance, gratitude and heat, their surrender of pain and rebirth into the privilege of speaking, laughing, storytelling, moaning, giggling. Celebrating, ululating, until the secret pathways and shrotas and incense trails and lacy fingers on the backs and behind and gaping pussy holes become mouths and voices, all of them ululating in the ancient cries of woman’s voice. Woman’s voice. Women’s voices raised in singing, crying, lullabying, joking, laughing, bubbling, giggling, whispering, praising, raising, phrasing, all good, all loving, all flowing in the ceremonial space that is woman. She is crafted for ceremony, naturally spiritual, connected, needing no form. We are the form. Built for loving, being loved; cradling, being cradled: there is no life without woman. We are life. We are drive. We are power. We are desire.

Celebrate yourself. Wake up to the music that is you.
Lift your head to whiff the smouldering incense that you are.

Shield your eyes as your gaze is brightened by the radiant white light of your being.

Feel the textures of silk and saliva, velvet and blood, satin and hair that drapes and adorns the fiber you are made of.

Taste the salty you, the sweet you, now the pungent and acrid you; the smoky burning paradise of you, the pickled you, the honeyed you, the candied you, the peppermint and rose hips of you.

You are the embodiment of all of life.

You are a celebration.

Your are the feast and the feasting, the dinner and the diner, the sup and the superb, the breakfast and the break slow, the snack and the morsel, the taste and the treat, a neverending changing and delicious banquet of woman.

Celebrate! Allow the bells to ring, the drums to beat. Entice the hips to move and the pubic bone to find its own rhythm. Allow the lovers to emerge into the light. Hide yourself no more. Be free. Warm your wings in the sunlight. You are nascent. You are alive Your many voices poised to shout as one, in birth: