By Keren Stanton
She would rather not be told what she should or shouldn’t do. Her ears can’t translate the hate-speak of today. Her’s is a language of the wind in the trees, the babbling brooks, the rushing rivers, a crackling fire, and the calling of the Raven.
The wildness in her bones dictates her moves, not the words of man.
The wind caresses her bare skin. The cold dirt packs beneath her nails — from clawing her way out of a self-created grave, from the Earth-womb.
She has wolf blood in her veins and the fire of the phoenix flickers from her fingertips, like 10 burning candles, as she writhes in moonlight. Dancing, undulating, naked and revelling in her renewal, in her death, and rebirth.
She rages with the oceans, stretches to the tops of the trees, caresses the new grass blades of spring, and allows the hot summer sun on her bare face. Wrinkles be damned. She speaks to the birds, the creatures, and to flowers. She delights in the downpour soaking skin, knowing her heart-fire will take over when she is done.
She did not ask for understanding or acceptance.
She simply is.
She belongs to no one.
She belongs to everyone.
She bares her teeth, and the world cover its ears.
Her silence breaks and her truth pours forth.
Like the howl of a wolf, an ancient melody, a piper’s song, a prayer.
A haunting call to her sisters, to the feminine.
To the ladies-in-waiting.
And she cries and asks, “What are you waiting for?”
She does not care to be pretty.
She does not care to be wanted.
She is already enough.
She doesn’t give a f*ck.
She simply is.
And so she stands, dirty and naked,
freed of the mantle of condemnation.
In one hand she holds a sword.
In the other, a bright lantern.
And she beckons to you.
She knows you have been waiting.
Come, and sit in her circle.
For now is The Rising.
The time has come.