An Interview with the Wild Feminine

I step cautiously into the room, unsure of what I’ll find, not wanting to disturb this elusive creature. There she is, dancing ecstatically, to music only she can hear. I’m frozen on the spot, blinded by her radiance.

As she spins, she catches sight of me and beckons me further into the room, into the dance. I mutter something weak, like, ‘oh, but there’s no music…’ and the sudden peal of her laughter awakens something long-dormant in my soul. ‘I know her,’ I think, and then the moment is gone as quickly as it arrived.

I sit down, all formal and professional, not sure what to do in the presence of this wildness. I wait, as she dances and spins and laughs. I watch silently, feeling that familiarity once again tickling a part of my being. ‘I know her,’ I whisper to myself, looking up as I feel her watching me.

Her eyes are wide and I see a hint of tears as she watches the internal struggle play out across my face. ‘It’s time to begin,’ she says. I agree, not wanting to point out that I’m the one conducting the interview here. A part of me knows it’s pointless to feign control.

She starts to talk, her voice seducing me with its softness, its strength and its wisdom. I surrender to the power of her and am transported to times and places long-forgotten. Times when the wild feminine created, danced and played in tune with the rhythms of nature, alongside her counterpart, the wild masculine. They played and danced and laughed and loved in harmony, in peace and in divine union.

She suddenly breaks from her story and says, ‘hey, look over there!’ Always the gullible one, I look, not seeing anything. When I turn back, she’s doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down her face. I laugh along with her, not quite sure what’s so funny, and then try to gather myself together. ‘Where the heck did I put my pen?’ I wonder, and am distracted by her redoubled fits of laughter at my look of consternation. She pulls my pen from wherever she’s hidden it and tosses it to me. She’s a trickster, this wild woman.

The stories continue, darker in tone as the distortions in the masculine multiply. The feminine becomes reviled, something to be possessed, subjugated, and overpowered, not celebrated and honoured, as before. It’s not the masculine at fault, it’s wrinkles in the fabric that weave us all together. Things get skewed.

I’m enraptured by her presence, but feel a deep sadness welling up in me that I can’t explain. ‘I know you,’ I say. She stops speaking and turns her eyes to me, rendering me immobile with the depth of her gaze. ‘Yes?’ she offers.

The understanding is spreading, reaching all parts of me. I know her – I AM her. We all are.

She is catharsis. She’s chaos. She is duality encapsulated. She’s love and hate, joy and pain, grief and ecstasy, madonna and whore, all rolled into one like one of those crazy cartoon fights. She rebels against the structures that confine her wildness, and takes risks that others call crazy. She walks a fine line between madness and sanity, and yet stays true to her own knowing, following the tiniest thread of wild within her to assure herself she’s still alive.

She explores the depths of pain and the heights of ecstasy with equal gusto because all are life. She knows passion is a state of being, and not a feeling associated with one person or thing. It’s a way of expressing life through our bodies and our selves. Others try to domesticate her, but to her domestication is death.

She only fears this death, in captivity, in stricture. She understands intuitively the cycle of creation and all the stages it entails – seed, gestation, stillness, birth, growth, death. That is natural, normal; death as a part of the cycle of wildness.

When trapped, or constricted, she becomes frightened, angry and confused. Her soft edges grow razor sharp barbs that cause pain to others. She lashes out and then retreats, hurt by her own confusion. She’s enraged by weakness, dishonesty and injustice, in herself and others. She shows up soul-level naked, unmasked and unafraid, and wants only to meet others in the same way. She speaks her truth, at any cost.

We find her in the hurricanes, the earthquakes, the thunderstorms and other acts of destruction as she is also in the birth of everything new. We find her behind the eyes of the drug-addicted; the sold-into-slavery; the over-tired, over-worked, over-wrought parent at the end of their rope. We find her everywhere, patiently, quietly, calling us to notice her. Hers is the voice we hear in the darkness, whispering, ‘it’s time to go.’ The voice grows louder and more urgent with each passing day, until we wake one morning and say, ‘It’s time to go.’ She celebrates with us as we leave, feeling the freedom of the wild at our fingertips.

She has sung to us through lifetimes, planted her seeds in our souls, ready to blossom when the time is right. She has never been conquered, only hidden away, singing quietly in the darkest recesses of our beings, growing ever more powerful, waiting to be invited up to the surface to play again in the light. She has learned from all the ways in which others have tried to domesticate or enslave her, and grown bigger and wilder in the process. The tools used to subdue her have only added to her strength, and made her hungry to be acknowledged.

And she is here, ready to be unleashed again, to offer her assistance in rebalancing the Earth to its state of Divine Union. All she asks is that you surrender to her wildness, without trying to tame or control it. Trust her. Allow yourself to be intoxicated by her power. Don’t fear the transformations she brings.

I’m surprised to find myself on the floor, sobbing in her arms. I rail at the sky, expressing tears of grief, rage, loss and love. I scream and wail, pound my fists and curse the gods for their part in taking her away from us, from me, for so long. I LOVE her, with the deepest part of my self and soul. I LOVE her and never want to lose her again. She strokes my hair and comforts me as I make snuffling sounds in her skirt.

Then we’re laughing, rolling on the floor, slapping each others’ backs, crying with mirth. I have no idea what’s funny, and it doesn’t matter. Gasping, and barely able to stand, she pulls me to my feet.

This time I dance.

Big Love,
~ Jenny

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