War & Woman

The concept of the divine feminine both fascinates and enrages me. For the context is one but the conditioning is another. The feminine for so long has stood for being stood on, a doormat, a brand of woman who knew her role and her place and was pleasing and satisfying and steadied waters.

Mixed now with the feminist, the sword wielding man hater, always looking for trouble and to stir pots and burn bridges. The context of the two being the choices we have. You’re one or the other. No blurred lines, no in between. Man loving doormat or man hating feminist.

Let’s be real. There’s a whole of woman and a whole lot of war between those two. Yet we are conditioned to be one or the other – soft, go along, pleasing is the way of the woman.

But is it?

Can I not be soft edges and powerful at the same time? Can I not be both war and woman? Is my rage and not laying down and be pleasing not feminine? Are the fires I set not woman?

When those fires burn away the pain, the evil, the negative, the putting up with, the taking on what women have carried, is it not feminine? Are the flames I fan not feminine because they burn away what is not soul?

Are the swords I carry not woman because they make me not a damsel in distress? To be a woman, do I need to be demure, do I need to be saved, and silenced and rescued and stitched together? Do I need a hand over my mouth and one between my legs while I smile to be feminine? Do I need to homestead and nest and suck dick just right to be enough?

Or is the war that rages inside of me , the battles in which I fight, the wars I have nearly died in, also woman and warrior, also feminine and divine as it taps into the creatrix that lives inside, that has the power to create and destroy?

Am I not woman when I leave destruction in my wake? Or is that a myth to keep us tame? For in allowing my rage and my destruction of all that isn’t me, real, soul or truth, I find I give way to the softness, to the wild one, the creatrix, to the great journey, the rest, the knowing, the surrender, the playful one that lives inside.

But when I deny my voice, my rage, my chaos, I put walls up, telling myself I need to be something other than I am because who I am isn’t pleasing, isn’t accepted, isn’t understood, isn’t feminine or woman. All the seasons of change, the cycles of life, the elements and directions, the goddesses and the gods, the creator, the destroyer, all swirling together as one, inside of me as the wild and free spirit – they keep the walls down and allows me to be free.

When I am free I am woman. And I am war. And I am feminine. And I am divine.

I am the warrior and the mother at the same time. I am the seductress and the rider in the night. I am the wild and untameable one that brings you to your knees. And that is feminine. That is woman.

A woman in her instincts is all of these things. Her power lays in her cycles, in her knowing, in her chaos, in her ability to flow between them. A woman out of her power believes she is and can only be one. She will jam herself into places that don’t fit, she will keeps walls in place, she will squash herself into corners and silence her soul to fit in.

A wild woman in her power flows. For some days she is fierce and a warrior and she will destroy all that’s in her path. And others she is the creatrix and mellow and soft and nurturing and inviting.

And a woman is all of these things. A divine feminine allows them to cycle through her, knowing that it is lies fed by those who don’t want a woman in her power that tells her she must be something other than she is. Because the most dangerous creature of all is a woman in her power.

A woman knows she is unapologetically all of these things and her softness lives in letting herself be who she is, without adjusting for the outside world. For when she makes sacrifices to who she is, she sells her soul and becomes a shell, she trades herself, bends herself, hides herself, becoming what they want her to be.

But a wild woman is not tameable, not captured, not over domesticated, not regaled to the back tables, back rooms, back corners and kitchens. Soft edges and soft to walk on are different. A warrior is not always hard and a woman is not always soft. A warrior has no hardness to her, lest she could not fight, for she has to have heart and purpose and passion to care enough to win the battle. She has guts. She has bravery. She is fearless. And that does not make her hard.

And a woman is not always soft. Is not always pleasing and going along, making due, making up, playing nice. Sometimes she burns the boats she was asked to steady.

A woman lives in the balance of both… some days she is war and some days she is woman. But most days she is everything in between and knows she doesn’t have to choose one.

And that is what sets her free.

Stay Wild,

Tonya

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