Stalking the Wild of Me

I sit on the dark side of the moon listening again to a solitary voice - the voice of the Lilith of me. Maybe you know her too?

Lilith, that lives here in moon dark, whose song has not yet been heard. Allured to her in a very dangerous courtship, I, daily, navigate the crevasses of moon rock and river a long way to new territory. This landscape of Self is holy in her rage and her mistrust and in her great tidal force. She midwifes, not the birth of the new, but the death of the old. I light a lantern, its hue purple/black and we both sigh a little bit for the light here is rare and the warmth welcome.

The Lilith of me, and perhaps of you, has access to raw at all times. Unapologetic, fierce, and deadly in the shadow, she emotes and it moves earth and star alike. She is the Temple Priestess who offers the sex and shape of her body as sacred and dares anyone or anything to respond in any way but with reverence. She dares a voice from the crowd to say ‘cover that up, put that away, your body is not welcome here’. And when someone or something inevitably does she tips her head back, hair pouring to earth, her great mouth opens like Canyon, and she laughs as the Crow caws, as the Cougar screams.  She knows her holy body, the earth, and how primordial its impulses. She knows in deep knowing, this world...the one we’re in RIGHT NOW, runs on pure desire...the seed of creativity. The spark of fire as we move around the wheel. And so she is sensual, and wet unapologetically, with earth from her night wanders still stuck under nails...still found behind her ears and matted in her hair and she revels in the mess of it all. 

The Lilith of me, like the Lilith of you, is the rebel, the wild one, the untamed, the destructive one, the solitary one, the one who has lodged herself inside my womb...gestating, growing, kicking...waiting in rumbling sleep to be seen and heard again.

So she’s made herself known to me in this lifetime.

There is a lot of grief in Lilith’s land. Not all my own. She’s been penned up for a very long time. So stubborn in her solitary self-owning that she forgets when to let love in, when to receive it, when to soften and put down the sword, when to let herself EXPRESS emotionally, sexually, messily. It was she that lost FAITH so long ago and it is she that stands one foot in this world and one foot out panicked and ANGRY and lashing out at the One that brought her here...again. Her cries echo in the night, “Take me back! Do not make me feel so deeply the rape and pillage and denigration of the sacred in this world!”

There is very real fear in that. 

The middle world of me, the everyday of me, see’s her access to raw and the unique and terrifying power she possesses because of it. This is the kind of power that will enact real change on the planet. This is the power that truly will transform.  And it’s clear in those moments,  that although I’ve been doing my own messy work in my private messy way, I rarely share it or show it. Surrendering to the rigid, and ailing confines of our social and cultural landscape. Thus appearing/being/dancing sterile. Untouchable. The messy of me hasn’t belonged for fear of the power it possesses. 

There is an arriving home into this soul-revival and I shift, belly to earth, in effort to feel her better. Images flash behind my eyes and I shiver, it’s cold here on the dark side of the moon. Too still. Something is pacing in the shadows. Stalking the little me of Me that learned to hold Lilith in - the filter of me, the western woman of me. Whatever beast is lurking springs finally and I am relieved for this to be over soon. All the bits of the old story flash before my eyes and I am knocked back, without breath, penetrated by claws and teeth and eyes that see through me to soul. Suddenly and absolutely, the one in me who refines, curates and controls all things - my voice, my expression, my creativity, my sexuality, my body - the one who is not in service of my particular MASTERY but in opposition to it, utters its last gasping breath. Trembles in the death throes of old, and pools out of me like liquid iron, weighty and hot. I sit up. My eyes adjust to the dark. I lick my lips and find fur there, great sweeping teeth, my breath rank. I look down, my body feline, powerful, sinuous, deadly.  So this is what balance feels like? 

Such is life in the underworld.