By Danielle Dulsky
She is rising. From out of the muck of church-sanctioned oppression, she is rising. From out of the frigid and unmarked grave, she is rising. From out of the dank prison of political corruption, the government buildings where men write their mechanisms of womb-control, the ancient ether where patient souls co-create our future, and her own psychic depths where indoctrinated hate binds her spiritual agency, the Witch is rising.
Her swelling outrage and boiling indignation at a system forged to keep her body, mind, and spirit under lock and key have reached a critical mass, and she has harnessed the fem-force of righteous rage in her belly. The reckoning of ego-madness is upon us, and, in this moment, she has no plans. She is raw wrath embodied. She is blind fury, and she is fervently scrawling pentagrams and protection sigils around those she loves.
She is deep red moon-blood dripping down the thighs of women who will not be tamed. She is a single tree still standing in a forest where machines ran rough-shod over maternal ground. She is the erotic innocence and guiltless touch of her own hand, and she is the gut-born howl of protest against injustice. She is a lone, choking fish swimming in black, polluted water. She is a baby duck covered in oil. She is the outstretched, charred arms of the holy healer, and she is the gravelly mother-song we hear in our dreams. She is the drowning polar bear and the last butterfly. She is the diamond jewel of psychic vision, and she is the steady pulse-beat of enduring hope for pan-global equality.
She is rising, and she is a vicious scream at the protestors outside the clinic. She is rising, and she is the hundred-mile drive for a safe abortion. She is rising, and she is birth control, choice, and autonomy. She is the tearful, quivering-lipped wail of the teenage girl when she growls This body is mine!
She is the spit on their unholy books and an unattended First Communion. She is vindication for Lilith and Magdalene. She is rising, and she has renounced the religion of her childhood for her god is not concerned with masculine vengeance against feminine power.
She is rising, and she is a baby born at Standing Rock. She is rising, and she is the unquestionable rights of Indigenous peoples. She is a downed fence. She is a demanded and deserved apology, and she is the long-term memory of this nation’s bloody, horrific labor. She is America’s birth trauma, and she is hemorrhaging all over this holy ground.
She is the rape victim’s refusal to stay quiet. She is the hex against privileged men pardoned by the system, and she is the circles of women coming together to share their stories. She is my curse against my abuser and my claw-marks on his back. She is the morning after, and she is whole-body grief.
She is the child-bride and the child-soldier. She is the Dark Goddess and the Dark God. She is Maiden, Mother, Crone, and she is Hunter, Father, Sage. S/he is genderless Goddex. She is all-things-holy, and she is rising.
She is the video evidence of racism and murder. She is Black Lives Matter. She is a refusal to be apathetic in the face of such egregious and institutionalized injustice. She is a rejection of complacency and an affirmation of vigilance.
She is the wings spread wide at the funerals of the Pulse victims. She is the rewritten verses of Amazing Grace declaring our souls’ autonomy. She is a many gendered world. She is a pale-knuckled grip on our soul-work and the unconditional acceptance of others’ identities as they proclaim them to be. She is an admission of not-knowing, and she is the bone-deep tattoos of her own worth.
She is the drowned refugee, the kidnapped school-girl, and the human shield. She is the little boy crawling out of the rubble. She is the hungry ghosts of the hunted women, and she is ravenous for justice. She is a spotlight on global power imbalances, orchestrated poverty, corporate greed, environmental irresponsibility, and every as-yet nameless oppression insidiously invading our world.
She is the tongue that has been cut out but still speaks. She is bruised skin. She is Pussy Riot in a jail cell. She is ever-becoming. She is sensual majesty. She is sex-prayer. She is moon-rise. She is wild. She is willful. She is Witch, and she is rising.
She is the sacred masculine and hollowed feminine intertwined and spiral dancing inside of everything. She is she who is. Her wild eyes are open, and she is wide awake. She is molten iron sparking in the crucible of our human transformation, and she is being poured into a mold of undetermined shape and form.
She is casting spells that bind the hands of those who threaten our billions, and she is using all the magick she has. She is sinking her bare-feet into river mud, and she is willing the waters of warrior women’s justice to groundswell beneath us and to compromise the foundations of outmoded structures. She is the embodiment of feminine ire, and she is bloodthirsty.
She is you, and she is rising. She is me, and she is rising. She is Witch, and her long-dormant anger is pure hellfire poised for an epic and timely eruption.
Sip a little more from Danielle’s medicine:
➵ Witch, Howl Moonward:
The Timely Salve Of The Dark Primal Feminine
➵ The Wolf-Woman’s Book Of The Dead:
A Samhain Benediction
➵ Invoking Artemis: The Liberation Of Our Wild Spirituality
➵ Submit your howl to firstname.lastname@example.org.
➵ Find our guidelines for submission to the Wolf-Woman here.