“Baba Yaga cannot be put on a lettuce leaf and black coffee diet. If one wishes to be close to her, one has to realize she has appetite for certain things. If one is to have a relationship with the ancient feminine, one must cook up much.” — Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run with Wolves
My Wild One has an appetite for space and silence–increasingly longer, increasingly deeper. She devours words: poetry, myths, ancient texts and unadulterated information. She craves sensation: a thrumming heart, aching thighs, a damp brow, a caressed chest, shoulder. She longs for brushing her lips along velvety, dappled apricots, cherry flesh falling away from the pits on her tongue, and strong, dark chocolate. She luxuriates in bitter liqueur and earthy wine. Her fingertips are electric with the desire to move and undulate and weave words, pictures, and things I cannot know yet.
I wake, our limbs entangled like slumbering felines, and reach for my journal to scribble down her nighttime whispers. She resides in my spine, guiding my practice like a prayer. She seeps into my thoughts, sparking fits of writing. Where my pursed lips or chewed tongue once might have quelled her words, they now erupt from between my teeth–looks like she inhabits those too.
The more I nourish her, the more insatiable she becomes. She tugs at my heart at the most inappropriate moments: clocking into work; an agonizingly polite conversation; a throb in my belly with an anonymous smile. She is a demanding consort, insistent that every moment is vibrant–with creativity or heartbreak or ecstasy or sorrow, and sometimes all at once. The sweet is also bitter, the bitter is also sweet. Unrelenting in connecting: the moonlight, the sunlight, the specks of Earth and Source, and us to each other in a lush, fractal dance.
Once she is summoned, she is relentless and will refuse to be forgotten again. She will shake you awake and demand you walk your path, and it will feel so right, and you will become fiercely married to your truth, slicing away everything that isn’t in resonance with what you’re destined to become.
But she has always been within you, waiting patiently–or not so patiently–for you to pay her a little attention, throw her a few crumbs of awareness–because she is you. A tiny rattle of the infinite heartbeat.
Remember, sister, because we are needed now more than ever.
Space & Silence
Lure her by listening. She is always murmuring, always beckoning–especially during the early morning hours. She is ancient, and calling back forgotten knowledge over eons requires a quiet mind.
She will tell you exactly what movement, food, sensory pleasures she delights in. Become exquisitely attuned to the bitterness of your coffee, the sweet morning air, She is a purist: eliminate the superfluous, the artificial, the inauthentic. Be discriminating in your thoughts, who you spend your time with, and what you spend your precious energy on.
This tête-à-tête with your Wild One will ignite your sight: you will see the Wild Women in others, and they will be drawn to you. Create your tribe and unabashedly show your feathers. Let your hair tumble down your shoulders, laugh loudly, shake your hips, get your hands in the dirt and start meaningful conversation sparked by books or articles or art or the world around you. Your sisters are your mirror.
Every ounce of sunshine, every drop of rain. The breeze on your skin. Every person you come into contact with today. Cultivate appreciation for the bliss and the creativity, and sink into the grief and righteous rage like a warm bath–this is how she shows herself too. The ebbs and flows are divine.