Digging deep into her rich, musty moist darkness
Searching for my roots,
I encounter the memory of my ancient grandmothers,
Their hands reaching to clasp mine in remembrance of what once was.
Buried by the lies and layers of heavy domination and violence,
Sitting in sacred cave by liquid fire,
Pouring stars into teacups,
Laughing amongst themselves,
They patiently wait
To see who will come through the mysterious vulva/opening of birth and death, though, both illusions in the great Round, we are beckoned into initiation, dancing with Form and Space.
They look at me, full of life, glistening cosmic eyes of the YoniVerse that know no violence against women and children, no rape of womanheart, womanmind, womanlotus and sacred womanearth…
Hearts full of earthy love, joy and wisdom.
And yet, their diamond tears stream down ancient earth-carved craggy creeks in cheeks
They tell me we have been foolish to think
That fruition only comes from straining to reach the light of the hegod, enlightenment as we have called it…
They say you cannot reach the light without dancing in the dark,
Without curling your pristine delicate roots deep into her immense heart, breast and womb of lush, velvety soil, the very core of your soil/soul.
Endarkenment they call it.
You have forgotten about endarkenment, they say, eyes on fire and hearts nearly bursting with purple, ripe passion…
If you reach for the light without your roots firmly held in Her ground of all being, you will perish, they say, as their hands paint the darkness with sapphire and emerald sparks, gently piercing my heart.
For far too long you have arrogantly assumed that awakening means turning away from my darkness, my mountain womb/cauldron of transformation.
You have taken my name Hel and twisted it into what you call hell-a place of fear, desolation and pain.
Hel speaks….she says “I am the Norse Goddess of regeneration. I take all departed souls unto me, in my sacred earth mountain, and hold and rock them, soothing their fears. I love them into newness, into new life. There is no violence here. I am taking my name back. You can no longer use my name. Hell, as you have named it, is a reversal of all that is good and kind. I am Hel, Mother Goddess of transformation. Do not forget.”
Demeter speaks….she says, “I am the grain Mother, she who gives life and nourishment. My daughter, Persephone heard the call of her grandmother, Hecate, from the inner earthworld to come and learn her secrets of transformation and regeneration, what you call death. Yes, I was sad when she left, for I love her beyond all measure. But Baubo, Goddess of the Wise Crack, came along and made me laugh. But I tell you now with all the passion of a mother SheBear, that nowhere, nowhere is there a raping god named Hades in my story. You have taught your children in your books about raping gods. Why do you do this? Gods who rape their mothers, sisters and daughters? This is abominable. You must stop teaching the children these stories. And retell the story of love between mother and daughter that sustains all life—stories that create beauty. For too long, you have sown seeds of sorrow, hopelessness and despair in your innocent children. If you want peace, as many of you say you do, you must tell new stories that reflect the deeper truth of a time when the Mother Goddess prevailed and all was well. Give your children hope, encouragement and wisdom so that they may grow strong, kind and respectful of all life.
Artemis speaks….I am she who is whole unto herself, owned by no man. I am not well understood, as I have never chosen to marry and I run through the forest with fleet-footed independence. In your time, woman-centered independence is not cherished. Too many of you flock to men as if they are your salvation. They are not. You are your own salvation. And they are theirs. What is it you are looking for, dear sisters, when you paint yourselves, cut your beautiful bodies to make something bigger or smaller, inserting toxic plastic into your lives? For what? To be more loveable? You are already loved, as the flowers in the field are. The rose does not wish to be a daffodil. The oak tree does not wish to be a redwood. What is it you are wishing to be that you are not already?
There are more voices to be heard, but they say another time.
The diamond tears of the ancient ones fall gently into curved womb lap,
And burst into new baby stars
Birthed from their heart transmission streaming through the cosmos
Like a blazing comet.
Someone has listened to them through the layers of heavy dusty sorrow.
Someone has heard them.
A renewed prayer streams forth from their lips in luminous joyful vibrations stretching out beyond time and space.
The grandmothers of timelessness surround me with ancient volcanic nurturing dark,
Rock me in their arms of plenty, kiss my forehead,
Ruby sparkles tickle my third eye.
I am home, and I feel their gentle pristine female touch and soft womanMother whisperings,
Reminding me that endarkenment is my true awakening.
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