By Danielle Dulsky
Tonight, as the 13th Moon rises and the holy feminine sinks into its mournful depths, I am whisper-praying a medicine that is not mine. I do not own these words, for they have risen from below December’s fallow ground, cracking through frozen mud and ascending like purposed vines that do not know Winter is upon us. This is no melodic hymn channeled from an ethereal angel; this is the wisdom of the wild. It has mud-caked fur but no white wings. Do not croon these verses harmoniously but howl them moonward with much guttural ferocity and a furrowed brow. Seek no glittery beauty here, Woman, for you will find only a rushing river of dark, purposed blood.
May your longest nights be molten crucibles for your transformation, and may you be forever held by this wild ground. Whatever the nature of your pain in this moment, may you brew a warm salve from the kind words of a long-gone stranger and build yourself a soft nest out of your grandmother’s legacy. Handcraft a matrilineal shrine and weep for the mother-wound we all share then light a candle for the children who will breathe a better world into being.
Do not lose heart, Witch, for these are the dismal days of the fertile void. We wander now in the space between death and birth, and we need no direction. We can no more return to our smaller, sepia-shaded lives than a newborn can return to the womb, and this larger, many-colored life for which we are destined will be blinding in its sacred brilliance. May you rest in this limitless, dimly lit space now, and may you know the true grace of the selfless gift-givers.
Deep within her earthen cave, the Wolf-Woman has handcrafted you jewelry out of blood-stained bones and shed antlers. She will leave it for you in the secret place where the ghosts roam, but you must leave her a promise in return. Vow to wear your wild well, and let it remind you of your perfect worth. Permit your feminine ire to wax and wane, for your rage spiral dances in time with the grossest of global injustices.
Crush your eyes shut when you need to, my love, but do not surrender to apathy; not now, not ever. The world needs your magickal agency, and the She-Wolf is howling beneath the ground for us all.
May you clench your fists, grit your teeth, and protect the temple of your body with all you are. Your skin is holy ground. You are a living benediction. May you know yourself as raw divinity. The sacred spark of our collective destiny is alive within you for it is immanent in all. You are the keeper of this secret chamber now, Highest Priestess. Guard it with all you are, for therein lies the totality of existence. The resolution to every great galactic mystery, the irrefutable answer to every perplexing philosophical query, all of this wisdom is writhing and wriggling inside your red, raw soul.
If you know nothing else during these cusp-of-Winter nights, know yourself as holy hellfire. No one can rob you of this truth, and the only wrath you need to fear is your own. Commit no crimes against your own soul’s purpose; such actions will lock you in a cold and passionless prison where you have to beg for every crumb of soulful sustenance. Get on your knees for no one, Priestess, and build your house with your bare hands. Write your own house rules and claim your space, for your home is a microcosm of the world in which you want all children to live.
May you find sanctuary in the arms of a caring, wild lover, and may you never relinquish the need to be truly seen. Every morning, wake refusing to hide one more piece of yourself you have kept buried in the name of social acceptance. Every night, bid your ancestors to gift you with their wisdom as you dream. May you continually seek and find your own liberation from all cages, and may you unfailingly question everything you are told.
May you claim your own soulfully softened identity, and may you demand to be called by the names you have given yourself. Tell the world who you are, and those who are worthy of your company will believe you. On the longest night, howl all you know to be true into the dark, bellowing forth from the warmth of your bed, and wake everyone who cares to know you.
Get lost, my love; this is the time for it. In this moment, we know nothing and everything at once, for we are nothing and everything at once. May you rest in your depths and trust all is coming. Manifest nothing now but squint into the holy dark and meet the wolf’s yellow eyes. These are the wildest of nights where all blessings be, but these hallowed gifts do not care to know us; not yet, but soon.
By the light of the 13th Moon, may you have faith in this thick and perfect nothing.
Sip a little more from Danielle’s magic here.
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