I have never been one of those spiritual women.
The kind that present themselves at best as light, approachable, and over whelmingly positive, and at worst, kind of overly saturated sweetly cloying. I have been annoyed by these women, jealous of these women, interested to see how they analyze the world, and I have pitied them in moments too.
I have wished to be sweeter, lighter, better liked. More appealing to people en masse but so completely unable to force myself to pretend to be something I am not. I know the value of wearing masks in spirituality and to pretend, to lie, with masks, is something I cannot accept.
I have seen alot of heartbreak in my little life.
It sounds a little depressing on the surface of it, but it is my truth, and as such, I have a very difficult time internalising the rationale of thought which expresses that if you just exude a little more sunshine then you will attract more positivity and everything will work out. I have upbeat moments. Moments of laughter, and silliness, all enjoyable enough, but I found myself tucked in the folds of the Goddess Morrigan for a reason; because more than once I found myself in undesirable circumstances that left puncture wounds all over my heart.
I am one of those spiritual women.
The ones that have endured, remained rooted to principle and belief as the onslaught began, and the waves filled my lungs and I thought I would drown. I have resisted. It lends itself to a sort of rawness, a presentation of self and spirituality which does not believe in easy answers to the grand questions. Who knows what it is to truly face ruin and heartbreak alone, knowing, as I do, that if I disappeared from the social interactions the internet provides, I could disappear, and that would be the end of the story.
Isolation and silence make for uncomfortable bedfellows. They are alot like medicine, capable of healing or causing harm.
“Poison is in everything and no thing is without poison. The dosage makes it either a poison or a remedy.” – Paracelsus
Aleksandra Milnkovic – Art
Certain pauses full of silence and isolation allow you to hear stirrings of the Universe itself; you feel connected to the tapestry of energy that weaves within and without, connecting us to every livung essence in this world. Other moments allow you to hear your heart dropping and cracking against a bleak concrete floor; that very concrete floor you have resisted, pushed away from, and refused to be part of.
I sometimes find myself caught between the trap of the world that exists currently and the deeper spiritual world I know exists beneath it, and stirs like a fiery seed waiting to be birthed; wanting to do more, be more, to be better in a world which seemingly has venomous fangs and will strike down those seeking to push back against its broken shell.
There are times when I realise that finding the sterile environment this world presents as normal as personally horrifying… means that I struggle to operate within it… clawing for success in an arena that means something deeper… spiritually, emotionally, and from a heart level.
Then, even as I typed those words, the doorbell rings and an unexpected gift is handed to me, a portable art altar for the Goddess Morrigan that someone has sent by Her instruction:
The portable altar reads “Mother of this cold Earth, truth and courage, you are powerful in your essence, bring out our inner magic, our deepest truths, so that new life can grow.” I burst into tears as the gift touches my soul, it is kind, thoughtful, and needed.
I have said before that “Often, in the face of pain, we reveal who we are,” (Goddess Morrigan and walking the painful path, link will be at the bottom,) and to that I hold and perhaps, for the purpose of this essay, amend; in the painful process of birth, we reveal who we are. We talk about birth in the light half of the year as though it is simple, when it is not; it is bloody, painful, and alters everything… it is merely that we prefer to focus on the sweetness that can follow.
“The human superpower: forgetting. If you remembered how things felt, you’d have stopped having wars and stopped having babies.” – Doctor Who
So when I find myself in moments where uncertainty reigns and the path is uncertain, and I do not know where I will go, or who I am becoming, I remember. It is birthing pains.
We stand on the precipice of a world which is clawing to silence, to tear out the throats of human evolution, and to keep the status quo of power in the hands of a few, the stories of those Other silent, to focus on the shallow broken shattered remnants of shell.
It is birthing pains.
When I feel as though the concrete is winning and ugliness is reigning and the world is out to sink its venom in my arms, I remember that I can take it and alchemize it into medicine, my medicine, my voice, transmuting this pain and heartbreak into a voice, a voice for all those who are told that they are not nice enough, not light enough, not likeable.
It is birthing pains.
I will be bloodied, and bruised, and even broken, and I will be born into who I am meant to be, who I am becoming. I will smile and laugh and consider myself fortunate, when I am, and when that is true.
And when the world is cruel and harsh and empty, I will scream and cry and flail.
We resist. We endure. We are born.
Many blessings, Starlets,
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