Slaying the (tiny) Dragon

Last night in my sleeping hours I was called to the cave where my Ancient Mother dwells in her simplicity and wisdom. This is the first time that I can recall being summoned by her, although surely there must be times far beyond my conscious mind that she has called for me. For it is she with her rheumy eyes; shaky, gnarled, veiny hands and toothless grin who has fashioned me. Typically I seek her out, appealing for guidance, direction and aid in this journey I embark upon.

This night was different.

I made my way her to dwelling, a place by now that I am quite familiar and comfortable with. My bare feet know each stepping stone along the way. I recognize and can name each tree, plant and flower. The smooth, gray stones - worn well with the timeless passing of my ancestral women's footfalls show clearly the way to the Old Crone.

I approached her and saw that as always, she is weaving. Weaving, weaving, weaving. Is she weaving a pattern on a basket or weaving the pattern of my fate?

As my approach alters the line of sunshine slanted to where she sits, she looks up at me, sets her busy work aside and in her faint, gravelly old-woman voice beckons me. "Come, my Child of Light. It is time for you to face the wyrm[i]." (For I will not give it a Capital start to its name) To do so would be to offer it far more respect than it deserves).

I knew of which she spoke of. The wyrm. The plague of the Children of Light. The killer of love. The destroyer of purity. Mr. Small. The wrym was known by many, by many names, and this abomination had sought to infect not only me, but so, so many others. Oh, I had encounters with this vile creature. I still bore the scars upon my flesh and upon my soul where it had sought to infect me, wound me, sicken me and kill me. The time for this evil to be destroyed had come

I took a deep breath, exhaled and steadied my hand. If my Mother knew I was ready, despite the dread and fear I felt inside of my own soul, I trusted that I was ready as well. Ready to finally put an end to such a vile, despicable thing that had infected and sought to destroy so many.

Mother," I spoke in a clear, strong voice, "I am fit to take upon myself the ending of this evil. Only arm me with what I need to do the dark task. Do not send me against it vulnerable. It has not been that many moons since I was snared within those honeyed words, those false promises, those silky lies. I need strong protection if I am to face it with the intent to destroy it."

My Child of Light. Don't you see that you have all you need already within you? You faced it once and out of the ashes, the pain, the scars, you have emerged a warrior! A champion of all the Blessed Ones." All that you need to defeat this wyrm is in within you. Go now!" the Ancient One commanded me, "You will not fail. You only need to remember who you are, from where you come from, and what you're made of.

 

I looked into those milky eyes. Those eyes that have seen so much for so long. Those eyes that held the history of the Children of Light in them; that witnessed birth and death and rebirth; that saw peoples rise and empires fall. Those eyes that held every wisdom of this world and beyond. Her eyes told me that indeed I was ready. Nay, I was more than ready – I was destined to face my enemy, the enemy of the Light, and I would not fail.

On my way back to my dwelling, I mentally prepared my heart, soul and mind for this ordeal. For I knew the wyrm to be cunning. I would need all the sharpness I had acquired since my last encounter with it in order to not again fall beneath its seductive, sly trap. I prayed to the Goddess for the strength to see through the false trappings that the wyrm was so skilled at donning. I prayed that I would see it as it truly is, and not as I had wanted to see it when I was almost undone by its deceitful mask.

I arrived at my shelter in the forest, where I lived peacefully these days, among the animals and birds that also called this sanctuary home. It didn’t take me long to pack for my impending battle. My physical needs were few.  Water and food I would forage for along the way. In the way of weapons, I chose my staff and shield the Crone had crafted for me. Those and my dagger were all I chose. This would be less a battle of arms, and more a battle of souls. The more I thought about this, the braver and more confident I felt. My main concern is in what guise would I find my enemy, for his disguises are numerous and clever. Would be appear as a friend? A lost soul in need of rescue? A lover, romantic and seductive? What did the wyrm look like in reality? This I did not know. What I did know, was that I would never be deceived again. I absentmindedly touched the scar that remained on my chest where the vile creature had sought to cut out my heart. Feeling that reminder of how close I had come to succumbing to the wyrm’s evil charms gave me courage to face it and annihilate it for once and forever.

It did not take me but a half day’s march through easy lands to come upon where I knew him to dwell in his infested, fetid cave. Before I could even see the mouth of the cave that was nearly hidden among bracken, thorns and dead trees, I could smell the stench – the sickening stench of rot, of decay, of all that is the opposite of what is good, and pure and light. Gagging, I raised myself to my full height positioned my shield, raised my staff and strode near the mouth of the foul creature’s cave.

“Come forth you sickening, perverted creature and meet your doom,” I called forth in a clear voice. My words echoed through the dead trees and bounced off the cold, dead stone of the cave.

After a moment’s silence, a voice, beautiful, silky and low replied to my challenge. “Ah, you want to play baby? Come in and we’ll get reacquainted. I know how you always loved conversation.” I heard the beauty in that voice as I had always, and for a moment I felt the familiar thrill of arousal. But I realized that I had heard something more in that seductive tone now, something that either was not there before, or something that I failed to notice until now. I heard self-doubt. I heard desperation. I heard fear. And my stomach turned and my lip curled in disgust and disdain.

“Come out to meet me here, in the open if you have the courage! For I want nothing of you lies, your slimy promises, your empty words. I have not come to banter with a snake, but to destroy a wyrm. Show yourself and face me in honor, if there is any honor that lives yet in you.”

I waited, wary, on my guard and tense, for what seemed to be a lifetime. I was just about to hurl another insulting challenge to my rival, when I heard a scraping sort of rustling at the mouth of the cave. I raised my shield, checked my dagger and steadied the staff in my hand. I was prepared to do battle with this creature that had used so many and had told to so many vile lies and destroyed love and fed only on lust and hate.

But nothing could have prepared me for what came slithering out of that dank cave.

I beheld the wyrm in its authentic appearance. Where once I, and any Child of Light may have seen a man, a friend, a lover, I now saw crawling out of the cave was a tiny, bloated yet shriveled, oozing, ugly tiny little worm. A worm – not a fierce, towering, fire-breathing wyrm. It slithered toward me, trying to appear bigger than it actually was. I could have stepped on it right then and there and ended the nightmare, but vindication, needed vindication from every Light-filled being this hideous creature had destroyed called out for justice.

“I know you want me Baby.”  At those words, those sick, disgusting words I had heard far too many times, I raised my staff, leapt forward, and with a primal scream, drove that shaft of wood straight and true into the belly of that disgusting abomination.

A look of sheer surprise and disbelief came over the hooded, beady eyes of the pathetic , ugly disease that lay impaled upon my staff. As what life that remained in it quickly dissipated, I caught a whiff of sickening cologne and some kind of strange alcohol, and heard the faint murmur of “Oh Baby…”

One sure stroke through what perhaps had been its heart ended the horror. Never again would a woman, a family, any person suffer from the lies of this evil being. I withdrew my staff and without a look back at all, walked away, a wiser; tougher; but not hardened warrior.

Was I hailed a hero by those I had vindicated, those who were fortunate enough to have escaped the fate of those like me? No. But it didn’t matter. The world of Light will never know what I had endured, what I had faced, what I had overcome or what I had destroyed. But that was perfectly fine with me. That was as it should be.

As I walked the miles back to my sacred dwelling, a snow-white dove descended from the limitless sky to perch on the branch of a rowan tree in my path. I paused, and looked into her eyes and saw my soul mirrored in her perfect, beautiful and innocent gaze.

 

---

[i] The word for dragon in Germanic mythology

 

 

 

Woman

 

 

My fourteen year old son asked me the other day why women's rights were so important to me. My immediate response was that it's because women have not been given their due throughout history. We briefly discussed it and I was satisfied at the time with our dialogue, but as the days went on, his question lingered in my soul and I asked myself, "Why do I care so much about women's rights? The question stayed with me for many days and I've determined why I feel so passionately about this.

 

I grew up in an abusive, strictly Catholic family environment. I was the youngest child of seven - five girls and two boys, one of whom died as a teenager before I was born. I know I was not planned. I've always felt that. As a young girl child, I was deemed a burden. My parents didn't affirm at all my innate place in this world. I was never guided to learn of my value, my worth. I was only another girl child in a world where girls held no worth.

 

From a distance I witnessed my mom's life: for she was too occupied with working as our often only income bringer; I saw her submit to my dad's violent, drunken rages; I let her in the house by my bedroom window when my dad threw her out. I saw that she had no power. 

 

I went to Catholic school and learned that woman was the root of all evil. I learned of Adam and the wicked Eve who brought about all sin. Original sin. The sin that we are all born with only because we are girls.

 

I learned from my sisters who all get pregnant as teenagers, that sex with a boy gave attention. Something none of us had at home.

 

I grew up in a time when song lyrics went like this, "She blowing me crazy 'til my ammunition is dry
She's using her head again," and "I got my camera, Make a star outta you. Let's inject it, photograph it, down to the subway let the boys have it ." I learned that if I gave to a boy what these song lyrics suggested, I would have all the attention I craved.

 

I spent years of my life trying to find my self-esteem, my worth, my place in this world by going from boy after boy, man after man to get a sense of who I was. I never had an assertive, healthy, positive female role model who could show me that being a girl, and then a woman, was beautiful in itself.

 

I lived like this for a very long time, until about a year ago, after I left the Catholic church and all its misogynist ideology, and I came to question and rebel about all that I thought of as womanhood. I rebelled against the ideas that society places on us women: that we are less important than man; that we were created from man and made to serve man; that we are here for man's domination. I studied various spiritual paths, especially ancient Western European spirituality, and found in Paganism, a respect and reverence for women that is non-existent in Christianity.

 

With my new-found self awareness of being a sacred, honored woman, I took this new, magical self to Idaho to visit an old friend who I trusted to hold me in the light that I now held myself. He completely led me to believe that he was as enchanted by my soul as I was to have found my true self. I was so completely ecstatic to show this rediscovered, magical me in a completely platonic way! The perfect opportunity to connect with a male who wasn't just after sex, at the perfect time of my life!

 

Well, it didn't turn out that way. It turned out that all his posturing, support and affirmations of this beautiful, free, spiritual woman I had become was only a way to get me to go out there to have sex with him. It was in that moment when I insisted he leave my hotel room, and I spent the next two days in Idaho totally on my own (which as a blast!!!), that I came to realize how many women go through their entire lives being prey to unenlightened men, that I could use my voice and wisdom to not only change the lives of women, but more importantly, to raise a better generation of men. Men who honor women for their innate power of life. Men who are self-sufficient. Men who don't use women to their own ends.

 

I want for every girl and woman to live in a world where her value and worth is measured by what she deems important, based on her own merit. I want the women who grew up with the same messages I received, and the similar fear and shame-based existence that so many of us have lived with to know there is something so much more sacred to ascribe to.

 

And most importantly of all, I owe it to my son, this young man who asked that all-important question, "Why do you care so much about women's rights?" to pave the way to a more enlightened, respectful manner in which to approach his understanding of sex and women. I am so incredibly grateful that I have the voice, the courage and the wisdom to fight for the right of girls and women.

 

We are sacred, made in the image of the Divine Mother, and it is time we take our rightful place back.

 





The Journey Truly Begins

I approached once again, the mouth of the cave where the Ancient Crone dwells. Only this time was different. Far different. My typically wild, tangled red hair was bound neatly in a braid down my back. In place of the gown, tattered and torn from my wild wanderings, I now wore a clean, well-made knee-length tunic. My feet, no longer bare and bleeding, were covered by sturdy sandals. I was embarking on a journey. I didn’t come to the cave this time in distress, hysterical, lost and desperate for healing. I came healed. My body strong, my mind clear and my spirit cleansed. I was healed. The wounds of my dance in the red shoes, the cuts from my bleeding heart bore faint scars, but I was healed. I came to the cave this time to give thanks to my Ancient Mother for her care, love, wisdom and blessings. The crone sat on the same gray, time-worn-smooth stone that was her place. She sat plaiting reeds into the shape of a sack, and I could see her work, though her eyes were milky, and her hands were gnarled with age, was superb and almost complete. “Mother,” I whispered reverently, and moved forward to sit at her feet. She paused in her weaving and gently touched my cheek. “Daughter of Light,” she murmured her voice paper-thin from years of chanting, counseling and singing. “My daughter, I feel the strength and purpose in your soul once more. You have wandered many moons, faced terrible foes and have come through the storm strong and pure.” Tears of gratefulness ran down my cheeks onto her ancient hand, as her words bathed my soul with love and light. “I see you are ready to continue your journey. You are ready, you are strong, but even strength alone is not enough to keep you safe and true on your path. The world is full of traps, beasts and illusions. You must equip yourself against such terrors. Child, accept these gifts as you go on your way.” She made a move to stand, and I, too, stood to help her but she slapped my hands away. “I am not so feeble. My strength is still powerful. Do not let appearances fool you.” She chided me. She handed me the reed sack. The work was beautiful and I felt worthy of such a fine gift. “Take this my Child. For you will need something to hold what is necessary for you to bring along on your quest.” My Mother than produced a sturdy staff of ash wood, carved with runes I somehow knew the meaning of, even though I had never studied rune lore. As she held out the staff for me to take, she intoned “Not all terrain is level. Not all water is clear. Do not rely on sight alone to guide you. The eyes are easily deceived.” From the cave she gathered more items for me: A skin of water and a handful of acorns. The final items she placed in my sack were a candle, white and smelling of beeswax, and a flint. Around my shoulders she draped a mantel of the purest white, soft but strong. “My child of light, go forth on your journey now and do not forget the lessons you take with you. My blessing is upon you. I await your return, but know and believe I am always with you.” With that, I confidently strode out of the mouth of the cave and began my journey… There is much symbolism in this vision that attests to where I have recently journeyed from, to where I am now on my soul searching and to my quest going forth. That I arrive at the cave, strong, healthy, whole and clean is symbolic of the healing I continue to experience. Like the Phoenix, I have emerged from the ashes of my pain, more beautiful and more powerful than ever. The beautifully made reed sack is a vessel to carry the tools I need in order to stay safe and healthy on my journey. It is my being, and I have all I need stored within my soul to journey forth with confidence and clarity. The staff is my intuition. I use it to test the waters now, where once I would dive in, heedless of what lurked beneath the depths. I lean on that intuition as I would a staff, when things don’t feel quite right. It is my guide. Water symbolizes so much. Cleansing, life giving, refreshing, initiation… without water, we cannot survive. Water is to the body what love is to the soul. The acorns are symbolic of the wisdom I have gained through my experiences. I will share that wisdom along my way and the seeds of my truth will take root and grow to enormous heights! The candle is the light of my true essence and being: my soul. I walk in light; I am a child of light. It is interesting that neither I, nor the Crone mentions where I am journeying to. I’m sure she knows but has no good reason to tell me. I myself do not know, nor do I have the desire or need to know. It is enough that I am well-equipped, brave and strong. I will go where my true path takes me, learning, growing, and loving every step of the way.

Invisible Wounds

I dreamed last night that I stumbled into the mouth of the cave where the Ancient Crone dwells. I ripped open the front of my gown and over where my heart lies beneath, was an open wound, angry-red and oozing blood. The pain that centered there but radiated out into every fiber of my being was excruciating. I fell to my Mother’s dirty, worn feet and sobbed pitifully, “Help me! This won’t heal and I can’t stand the pain any longer!!” I wept and screamed for the agony of that open, festering wound. The Crone stroked my hair with her gnarled, veined and wrinkled hand, calming me and gently asked, “My daughter of light, what have you done to care for the wound?” I looked up at her rheumy eyes, my own eyes blurry with my tears. “I don’t understand. I just want it to be gone,” I cried. “Daughter,” she sighed. “The wound won’t heal unless you attend to it. It will only get worse if you try to ignore it. You need to take care of it. For only then will you ever be whole and free of this pain again.” Understanding dawned on me then. Yes – some wounds need special care in order to be healed or they will fester until the poison of infection spreads. In my dream, the Mother then led me to the river to attend my wound and to heal, I then woke up. I lay in my bed in the darkness for some time, understanding coming to me in the early morning light. I recently experienced a betrayal that was quite devastating, took me completely by surprise and left me with an enormous, ugly and painful wound on my soul. I’ve struggled so much with wanting to just get over it, to move on, to forget about what happened, to act like it did not leave any impact on me. Most of the time I (thought) I was managing quite well, but more and more, as time went on, instead of the pain lessening, it became more intense, more unpredictable and I felt more confused, hurt and angry. Time heals all wounds? Not always. In cases of emotional abuse, yes, what I went through is emotional abuse, we need to journey on a path to the river to cleanse our wounds and heal our heart and soul. Bodily wounds benefit from cleansing with soap and water, bandages, antibiotics, rest and time. But how do we care for the wounds of our hearts and souls? These wounds are far more devastating than any hurt to our skin or bones, but we tend to ignore them, push them back and deny their existence. Doing so creates an environment where healing is not only impossible, but fosters conditions where festering, sepsis, toxicity and eventual death – death of our self-esteem, our confidence, our ability to trust – occurs. I realize that The Crone was telling me that it is not enough merely to let time pass in this. To heal and come out of this with my soul intact and still pure and filled with light, I need to actively engage in cleansing my soul, protect the wound, and salve it with realizing and accepting that I’m worthy of only the highest love. This knowledge and belief is my soothing balm. Surrounding myself with only those people who are good and loving and true is my bandage, and the dignity and authenticity in which I life my life and reflect that onto others are the healing waters that will keep me clean and safe. I am able know to understand now that it doesn’t matter what he did. For he is nothing. What matters is that I spend time healing. And that means I will polish the treasure that is me, guard that treasure a little more wisely now, and continue to share myself with my world. I’ve lost nothing from this mistreatment. In fact I’ve gained much: wisdom, heightened intuition and an appreciation for all who love me, including myself.

Dancing in the Red Shoes

I awoke from a dream in the middle of the still and silent night. In my dream I approached the cave where the Ancient Crone dwelled. I’ve visit her often in my dreams. This particular night, I was dancing out of control, unable to stop - spinning wildly, my flaming hair a whirlwind, my clothes tattered and flying about me.

On my feet I wore those red shoes I could not remove. Shoes that were not made by me but that I foolishly allowed myself to be tricked into putting on, only to find that I could not remove them not matter what I tried. I had danced and danced.  These shoes were made by a man, a man set out to deceive and hurt me. These shoes were not of my own creation. At first the dancing felt so sensual and exciting. It made me feel free and bold and daring. Soon though, I realized that these shoes and this dance were not me and I longed to return to my barefoot state. My natural state. My true state. Too late I knew the shoes could not simply be taken off and I although I came to loathe them and the shameless, erratic dancing, nothing I did made any difference. I continued to spin out of control, whirling past and around my soul in a frenzied uneven rhythm. I loved the feeling the wild dance brought, yet I hated what it was doing to my soul, for I was consumed. I was mortified that I gave myself up to this killing dance, yet I couldn’t get enough. Wispy images of excessive thinking, meaningless and unsatisfying sex, fantasies, lies, obsession, drunkenness, loathing and fear whirled about me as I approached the mouth of the cave.

“Mother, please help me!” I pleaded to the Crone, desperately screaming and weeping, “I can’t stop and this dancing is killing me!” 

 

“Come my child,” My Ancient Mother soothed me and held open her bony, tattooed and scarred arms to me, “These shoes are not for you.” I collapsed at her feet in a puddle of writhing. The Crone pulled out a small sword from the folds of her tattered garment and to my horror and with any hesitation on her part; she swiftly and brutally cut off my feet. Blood spewed forth hot and wet, soaking the floor of the cave, blackening the gray, cold stone. The agony was excruciating!

“It hurts! It hurts so badly I can’t bare it” I screamed, watching my crimson, blood spill forth. “Only for a bit,” my Mother reassured me unsmilingly, “But you will soon thank me. For this is the only way you will ever be rid of the dancing that is killing your soul.” I did not believe her. As much as the shoes had hurt me and were clearly not made for me, without the dancing I felt ordinary, plain, bored, tamed and domestic. What did I have now to excite me, distract me from the mundane, entertain me and make me feel alive, fill me with desire and make me feel alive? The pain was unbearable and I would have given anything to have the shoes back on. 

The Mother removed my clothing, and despite her frailty gently lifted me in her arms and carried me, trailing blood, to a serene, crystal-clear pool of water in the middle of a sun-dappled forest where she gently immersed me in the pool’s depths. “Rest now my child of light. Trust that all will be as it should and you will heal,” she gently but firmly told me, and she turned and left me alone in my agony and tears.  

I lay in the cool water, protesting but unable to rise up, refusing to believe that I could live without feeling the rapture of that wild dance again. I kept calling to the Crone to put the shoes back on – for I was certain that if given another chance to wear them, I could control myself but alas, she made her slow unsteady way back to the cave. I squeezed my eyes shut as the tears fell. I wept and howled and raged a long time. I railed against my fate until there were no more tears to cry and I was exhausted.

After a time the pain and unfamiliarity lessened somewhat and I opened my eyes. Mists of images of my children and family, my friends, my career, education, and books, arose from the water and I watched these images play before my red rimmed eyes. I saw myself barefoot as I had been before being seduced to don those perilous, man-made red shoes. I saw myself as I a truly am: beautiful,  strong, independent, loving and spiritual. Then at once it seemed, the pain receded and all I felt was a profound relief. I was free. I was me again. I breathed a deep, contented sigh and was restored to peace. I lifted my legs up out of the water and found that the deadly red shoes were gone and my feet had been restored, unscarred and as strong and whole and able to take me on my destiny as ever.

I stood naked and dripping strong and real, and walked barefoot back to my path.

 

 The red shoe legend is symbolic of any behavior that leads us from our true selves and forces us to dance wildly and uncontrollably away from our path. The red shoes are obsession, fantasies disguised as reality, addiction, eating disorders… The only way to rid ourselves of these deadly dances is to cut off the shoes completely and all at once. It is painful. That’s why addiction and codependency are so horrible and terrifying. We lose ourselves to the dance that at first feels so good but quickly spirals out of control. We must learn to walk barefoot again. 

Sometimes I miss the red shoes – I miss the dancing as it was when I first put the shoes on. But I know they aren’t for me and that I need to steer clear of the seduction of sinister cobblers disguised as old friends.

Do I regret my time in the red shoes? Yes, of course, but only insomuch that I will never have that lost, precious time back: time that I wasted on something ugly and false. I console myself  by chalking it up to a life experience that taught me much. I learned that to lose one’s self is the greatest sin, if indeed sin exists.

I am content now most times to walk. Walk my own path and dance barefoot to the music of my soul.

I would remiss in not expressing my deep, deep appreciation to Katie who introduced me and placed me in the care of La loba, The Wolf Woman; Tracy and Jenifer, for being vital in my return to my barefoot state. I love you and value you more than I can ever say or show.  It’s a rare blessing for a woman to have such a circle of friends.

 

The Gift That is Us

A recent experience has led me to examine my worth and how much I value myself as a woman. For many reasons, women often hold on too long to relationships that don’t honor them. We are afraid of being alone, we’re scared no one else will love us, we are dependent on another person financially, emotionally and psychologically. We settle for less than we deserve. When someone hurts or betrays us, we wonder what we did wrong in order to warrant such treatment. We tell ourselves “If only I was more ________ (pretty, sexy, fun - the list is endless), he/she would ___________ (love me, make time for me, put me first - again the list is endless).

            I’ve come to understand that when someone acts toward me in a way that goes against what my soul desires and needs, it is not due to any defect or wrongdoing on my part. It simply means that the other person has been careless with my gifts and that my needs are not being met. My gifts and love are too precious to casually drop into the lap of someone who doesn’t appreciate their value. My light is too beautiful to be put in the care of someone who is afraid of or won’t tend my fire. We can lose sight of the value of the treasure that is us, and our light will fade if these are not carefully guarded.

            So many people think it takes great courage and strength to consciously let in the light bearers and shut out the ones who would steal our treasures and carelessly toss them in the trash, but I say it’s how much we love ourselves that enables us to make these vital choices. Loving ourselves means we honor our gifts and value our worth. We recognize how precious and magical we are. When we realize and really embrace our worth and beauty, there is no way we could ever entrust our gifts or light to someone who doesn’t value us as much as we value ourselves. There is no replacement for this true, deep and vital love.

            Closing the door and moving on from someone or a relationship that wounds our souls is imperative to our self-preservation and peace, and it is absolutely necessary in order for us to be free to polish our treasures and tend to our light for others who honor us to receive.

            When we love, respect and honor ourselves in this way, our love for ourselves and others radiates throughout the universe and we find more and more people and relationships that are worthy of our gifts and our light.



Perilous Gifts

It has taken me years and years to return to my wild state. The state of my true and natural self. The state of peace, love and wonder in the world. It has not been an easy journey. I have had to fight off predators in the form of abusive partners, free myself of the cruel leg traps of false friends, avoid the gilded cages of false promises of love and so many other often-hidden detriments to my journey to my authentic, free, perfect, wild self.

My return to my natural state has been arduous at times, but mostly it has been a grand adventure! I revel in my new-found spirituality. I live passionately for the causes of equality, peace and social justice that are so dear to my soul. I no longer care what others may or may not think of me. I make no apologies for my values, my views or my vista of the world. I have rediscovered my sensual nature, and all the beauty, wonder and magic that comes from living in my natural, wild state.

My instincts are strong and trustworthy. I find that I when I completely trust my instincts and go with their flow, my life is in harmony and I not only enjoy peace, my world is a colorful, joyous, magical kingdom which I cannot wait to awaken to every day!

During my recent adventures in this journey called life, I received an unexpected, unlooked for gift. How absolutely perfect this gift fit into my life! Although I was very pleased to receive this gift, it didn’t surprise me that I should receive it. In fact, it made perfect sense to receive such a gift from the Goddess at this point in my journey. This gift has brought a new magic to my life.

The more this gift becomes a part of me, I see something new about it. This gift came with strings attached.

I don’t like strings. I’ve learned that I don’t deal with them well. Strings are hard to hold onto and often knot up. I don’t have the time or patience to work on knots. I’m too busy loving me and who I have discovered I am. Strings also have a way of binding me and to bind me is to submit my spirit to a long and tortuous death. But strings are not always easy to detect. They can be as fine and as sheer as the slender, silken thread of a spider’s web.

I allowed myself to be bound by such a string.

I did something that I didn’t want to do. Something that was so against my nature that even as I write this, I regret to the very core of my soul this thing I did. The act itself is minor. The damage to my soul however, is not. This thing I did was out of love, to please someone, to aquiece to another’s wishes, to give someone what he wanted, and though I gave it with misgiving, I gave it nonetheless.

I gave it while the wild girl child in me screamed and screamed at me not to give it. She, who could see what this would do to me. I ignored her. She, whose voice it is that howls with the wild woods with the wild wolves. I ignored her. She, who looks back at me in the mirror, awed by the beauty she sees reflected there. I ignored her. I betrayed her by giving what I should not have given, and now I can never get it back.

That I did this thing I so regret, has not only damaged my spirit, I find I can no longer enjoy the gift like I did before. Now I see it as a thing to mistrust, to fear. I am afraid of it. What if it demands something more of me that I don’t feel right in giving? What if I listen to my wild child and go against what the gifts wants of me? Will it leave me and re-gift itself to another?

Where I was in love, absolutely and wondrously in love with my wild, true, perfect self, now I dwell in a dark place of remorse, insecurity and self-doubt.

The beautiful wild child is hiding from me. She’s scared to come back for fear I will betray myself again and do something again that goes against my nature in order to please someone else.

I miss her and I need to find her again. I will set out for the places I know she haunts: Magical forests where fairies, colorful mushrooms and the lynx dwell. I will search for her in the pages of a Diana Paxson, J.R.R. Tolkien, or J.K. Roweling book. I will listen to her child-like laughter in a funny joke; her siren song in a Wagner opera or in the music of Led Zeppelin and Rush; and I will look for her tracks near the standing stones of Ancient Albion…