Most days, I climb into the bathtub—my space of prayer and connection. I open the Akashic Records, and I tune in. Lately SHE shows up immediately: the deep Feminine. The ancient force of creation.
She is everything.
She reminds me of that Florence and the Machine song: “there’s a drumming noise inside my head that starts when you’re around.” (Go listen, Florence is tuned in.)
The Feminine is an ancient, shamanic beat that fills my body.
Dark soil that seeps from the ground to fill me, as long as I promise to spill it out. As soon as she appeared, I was married to her. She’s reciprocal: the creatrix and the destroyer. I am part of her, and she is part of me. Open to her feels grounded, fertile, intoxicating, divine, a hyperawareness of breath and tongue and tailbone.
I resisted the Feminine for a long time, at least in her purest form. I was too PC to really get her, too scared, too unwilling to get messy and ugly. Too much of a good girl (which is a toxic structure, a warping of Her), staying quiet and small, not wanting to take up too much space. Living in a place where “I have no power” meant I was good.
This is not the Feminine. And it is not good. It’s a denial of what is.
And there’s the non-binary part of me, who wanted to please everyone. I got stuck when using Masculine and Feminine language: Isn’t the use of these words traditional, confining, and offensive? Shouldn’t we all upgrade to yin and yang? So I tried that. I tried to water down my truth, my experience of her.
But the Feminine is a force, and she’s longing to pour through everyone, everywhere.
She’s a long-oppressed force, one we’re just beginning to understand. The Feminine isn’t about gender. She’s a power, a depth. She is messy, unapologetic. She is Truth. And the more I try to describe her in a linear way, the more I hear her laughing in the background because she’s not available for that. Because she is spiralic paradox, she is Knowing rather than explaining. You feel her or you don’t.
She’s rooting out my need to be saved and my need to save others. She’s opening my rib cage and exposing my bloody, messy heart. She’s coaxing out my every sensual desire. She’s beckoning me into my spine and compressing me into my power. Nothing that’s not True gets to stay. There’s no people pleasing from here, no energy available for what doesn’t matter. She tells me to excavate and show up. This feels like the messiest thing I’ve ever posted, and she says: Yes. Let it be messy. I’m dismantling your perfection, bone by bone.
Because what isn’t True doesn’t get to stay.
My prayer, her prayer for all of us.