by Deborah Anne Quibell
Goddess, only that which has been pushed down can rise.
But perhaps, the problem comes when we don’t dig deep enough. When we don’t burrow down to discover what has long been repressed. When we get entangled in the order (or disorder) of surface things. When our sacred lives are consumed by a complex web of projections.
Perhaps, the problem comes when we recollect only briefly. When we abandon our dig for a circle of distractions. When we become possessed by the old and rotten dramas, the stories that were invented to keep us withered and small.
Perhaps, the problem comes when we get too close. When we hear the terrifying rumble of our own power, and the panicked monsters chase us away. When the dark (fertile) soil of Earth closes in, and we bolt for the Sun.
Noticing this is our sacred work. Noticing when we drop the shovel. Noticing when feelings of fatigue (or anger or disgust or helplessness or unworthiness) dissuade us from our holy archeological pursuits. Noticing when we move forward with complacency, when we shy away from confronting the Giants of Division, Patriarchy, Bigotry, Racism, and Sexism whose survival and entire existence depends on keeping us down.
What we must remember, fiercely, is that we have much more than magical beans. We are the magical beans. We are the stalks. We are the Giants. We don’t need any magic other than our own. We only need to dig deep, deep, deep down, and rise up. In flocks. In crowds. In gatherings. In packs.
A fire goddess left us a road-map reminder. A note to put on the refrigerator door of our heart. To remember, fiercely, again and again and again. She gave it to me, to give to you, to give to all of us. Don’t be fooled any longer.
Rise, goddess, Rise.
Rise, warrior of the winds.
Your sensitive, subtle strength
makes mountains tremble
in reverent awe
and trees reach
down, down, down
in yearning intimacy
with the holy Mother
that lives in your bones.
Rise, woman of the waters.
There is a swelling tide
made not to sit behind a dam
but to rumble and shape the stones
that sit heavy upon the planet’s
capacity to feel.
Others may try to keep you small,
but only because they fear
your moon-like magnetism.
It is not the time
to write new legends,
but to bring the ancient,
buried worship back.
To move within circles
and remember, fiercely
that the stars live in your eyes,
and with one blink
you can summon the sun.
Enough of this submissive nonsense.
You were not made
to please man
but to dismantle darkness
with your alluring gaze,
to lay siege
upon the fortress
that for, too long,
has kept the wild, feminine heart
chained and captive.
World in your soft, weathered palm,
Rise, goddess, Rise.
Featured image: paige-mcfall.com
For more self-study, The Urban Howl recommends The Universe Is a Green Dragon: A Cosmic Creation Story.
Sip a little more from Deborah’s medicine:
➵ From Unworthiness To Your Own Kind Of Remarkable
➵ You’re Allowed To Write “F*ck” In Your Journal 74 Times & Break Into A Million Pieces