The drummer comes, her circle made, needles move, matches, fingers curl around the body of an idol, wisdom and ritual is tended,
cups filled
with the wine of women before and women again, and joy, in her honesty, her voice gathering shape centrally,
creating form.
Around goes she, our idol, forming the opening, drowning out the light outside and the life beyond, creating a safe and soul resting space.
We singing silently for the support of our sisters, we carry the Queens who are exhausted from battle, we neutralise the rage quivering in their bones, we clutch the intervals of peace and hold them.
Here each she brings differences, for one her sleepless nights, another her blood, she with her baby in arms, she with no baby for carrying, she in menopause, she who isn't ready to speak, she who outpours her soul as a river upon the sea, she who seems stiff but is present, she comes with her light and her offering. She is not afraid.
We listen
to the stories of present and of old, to the poetry of our cycles and female history, to the sacred throbbing of our shared anatomy as we sit in the womb, in a temple. We, tells of truths, are immersed, shedding dead skin and cells, creating a home beneath the safety of our Red Tent, and allow this freedom, this warrior call within soundproofing to cleanse our dear, resilient, powerful souls.

#Maiden Mother Crone
#Red Tent
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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