“The bloody birth of a Wild Witch.”
“The bloody birth of a Wild Witch.”
“Wild. Ancient. Carefree. Who were we as witches before we learnt What the world told us to be?” – Joey Morris
In passing, it can seem as though the reclamation of ones inner wild self is as simple as a moment of glorious realization, following which the shackles which once chained us to personal limitation, degradation, and loss of self, release, and we are free from those controlling elements that have so tortured our spiritual journey. Perhaps there is even fireworks and a fanfare of trumpets sounding to announce to the world that we have reached the pinnacle of inner freedom.
The reality of personal reclamation was far more brutal. Having already touched on the uncomfortable nature of birthing pains, with the figurative snapping of bones and the psychological necessity to drown away the parts of self that refused to shapeshift and grow; the stage was set for the experience of rebirthing.
It hurt. It still hurts. It required sacrifice; the ending of an entire kind of life, and more than that, it had to be the intentional tearing of that life from the self. Bloodied, bruised, and broken, crawling up the stone steps to the dais, crying, screaming and burning inwardly, in order to throw myself on the altar. Willing. Able. Ready to die, death screaming out into the night; a willing participant in the murder of self; entailing the tearing away the encasing exoskeleton which had grown like a hardened shell of fear around my soul.
art – Natalia Deprina
My heart carried the heaviness of the void as I turned inward, and confronted that emotion, forcing myself deep into the inner self, examining the wound within, talking peaceably to my shadow self. I knew my rising fears were vulnerability about loving completely and freely, knowing that the risk involved in rewilding myself was immense…
That risk manifests as the inkling of fear that scratches at the back of the mind; the inhaling of hesitation that seeks to straddle the wild soul and subdue it. This time though, the yearning of the soul was too ferocious to be intimidated by fear. The call would not, could not, be denied. My bones had cracked and splintered, revealing soul bones and the resulting emotional reaction struck deeper than ever could have been predicted.
This inward process was also violent, with shaking spells and tears, it required a part of me to break open and then heal. The connection to healing this particular wound required something precious, a part of myself that had remained hidden and reluctant since surviving abuse.
Trusting completely in this heart process.
A broken heart that has never truly healed, fears the unification process that leads back to the wild rebirthing. To trust is a risky exercise to the fearful, knowing the result of a hundred failed attempts before this.
Yet I had seen the universe move in a thousand synchronicities that accumulated to the most tangible form of magick I have yet borne witness to. Confirmation from the realm of spirit was almost constantly physically manifesting, affirmation after affirmation until there could be no doubt; the universe was hammering the door down, speaking in every voice it had in its crescendo; calling, screaming, whispering, screeching, that this; this was the time.
“The cost of a life worth everything is the death of anything that went before. The universe said ‘fucking leap, woman.’ My heart and soul said ‘fucking leap, woman.’ So I leapt.” – Joey Morris
Resistance comes from all that you used to be; the past you and from all the bonds that tied you there, that kept you from being your wildest, truest self. Parts of you (and others) resist.
It is akin to clinging on so tightly we injure ourselves; we grasp the bars of our own decrepit cages even though the rotten bars tear our skin, wounding us with learned precision, striking fear into our hearts, beating our spirit down, trying to keep us small.
These rusty nails must be pulled from our backs, the infected wounds burnt through, cleansed, until the poison of our past drains. There is relief momentarily as breath fills our spirit lungs for the first time in an age.
Then there is pain. Our spirit lungs are battered and bruised from the constriction they have endured, and the inhalation of freedom tears at the tenderness that awaits there. Then hesitation slips in. The self-doubt within accuses us of being an imposter. We shake to our core, wondering if we have sunk our teeth into something that is too expansive, too real, too raw…
Perhaps we have, but the wild witch is all fangs and claws, and remembering the taste of blood in the mouth releases that primal howling from deep within. We begin to shed our skin peels back, our fangs elongate, our eyes widen as we see the world anew.
Such a path is dangerous.
But so are we.
This is the birth of a wild witch who sees with their ‘other eyes’ and treads the path of edges, sharp and unusual, but filled with adventure, magick of the liminal and the in-between spaces.
It is bloody. It breaks us apart. It forces us to elevate.
But it is the purest, rawest, most unconditional truth of self that can ever be found.
So leap, and rise to every challenge; meet it headlong in your wildness.
No one can stop you.
Tear apart who you have been forced to be.
Live free. Live Wild. Live.
Stay Fluxy Starlets,
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