Beautifully, broken – the special damage of a Good Woman.

The Earth, she has her own rites for the making of Earthlings, for the making of Good Women.
In an Age where the precious cargo of our inheritance of story is confused, is under assault from the pornography of the market, the rage of the war machine and the dry tongues of our own despair, where can we go to tap the well, to find that sweet water that calms, refreshes and inspires a good life?
The Earth – she is a library.
The Earth – she is grief made golden and cast back to us in every form – if we can only reclaim our eyes, so that we might see it.
What do we need?
What to do?
Where to run to?
How to live?
Who to save?
… and where is my beloved? my home? my cash dollar? my destiny? my grave?
We hunt about the trash heap of our culture, the empty husks of everything we made out of all that was once wild, and honestly, desperately, earnestly seek out that radiance we somehow know should have been our lives .
What has become of us?
What to do with this beating heart, this flesh, these dreams and all this potential?
No sooner do these beautiful questions leave our ever-drying lips, than they are answered by some pimp selling creams, selling donuts, selling yoga wear, underwear, cook wear, pain killers or lip pumpers.
After the circus – then what?
Ahhhh… after the circus – you take your rite.
You become quiet.
You become still.
You find a place to curl up in.
You resist the temptation to make it a bottle or a sofa or a grave.
You go to the wild.
You get out of the car.
You take off your shoes.
You walk.
You walk.
You walk….
and then, dry, exhausted, angry, bored, lonely, lost, whatever…
you sit down
and you stay there.
You sit down
quietly.
You sit down longer than you normally have the dignity to
and you will hear it
you will receive it
in gentle whispers
in a fierce voice
in an ant bite
or a dream.
The medicine.

~ ∞ ~

Here is some of mine – after a long, lonely exile stumbling once around the islands of Indonesia.
The Making of Good Women
is always a journey of descent.
Kuanyin keeper
A Balinese Priest, Keeper of the Temple of Kuan Yin.
The social woman, the woman who lives on the skin of the world
and has learnt the craft of her culture
must be destroyed, dismantled
unrobed…
for the natural woman to emerge.
In the myth cycle, the deep dream that makes us,
it is exactly the successful woman
the one who ‘knows how to do it’
who is
suddenly
or gradually
pulled back into the earth womb
for her initiation to the wild business of womancraft.

She is sent down by sorrow, betrayal, abandonent, shame, grief or magic.
She enters a cave
– either one made of earth, or one made of suffering –
and so arrives in the womb of the world,
the cauldron of fierce love
that creates, re-makes, weaves and unweaves us.spider1


She is shorn of that which allowed her to succeed
in a system that is, at essence, synthetic.


She is tested, humbled, unpicked and ruined
to be re-assembled into something quite different…
something far graver
than the goddess she had hoped for.


Something that does not glitter.


In her undoing, she takes the true medicine of the earthling rite,
and becomes
a woman fit for birthing and for dying
a woman fit for creation and for the unraveling inherent
a woman who has true courage, and not just ambition
a woman who loves, in full wisdom of the grief inherent
a woman who weaves, not for her own survival,
but to make beauty within sorrow
to know grace.

 

She becomes a woman, tempered.


One fit to carry a newborn child, a hurting man and her own dying mother, as well.


She becomes a woman who has earned the beauty of the deep well of her undoing,
and can stand, re-made, unadorned, perhaps unnoticed and even scorned, carrying the chalice of grief, made golden.

P1050892

 

 

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