Reflections on the Moon: In the name of Empowered Women and Voice, we welcome this new series of poems, essays, and interviews about one of our most intense rituals, our menstruation. We all know, men and women, how much we women transform over the course of a month! Instead of feeling choked and smothered, we are learning from our monthly flow about how to dance with raw passion in the face Life, Death, Life. Long live La Lobas! Please comment and continue the conversations…
DARK RED LIFE
We women bleed, and when the walls of our wombs burn so red they have to weep, we remember:
Make the best of it. The pain that weathers our bones will always be there, death is inevitable and day by day we age, we shed ourselves, we become new and old at the same time. Every month we meet our mortality, we come to face the truth that we were made to carry it all, own it all, all the sorrow and devotion. We carry the water, we carry the weight, we carry the reminders of our fragile and fleeting yet infinite existence.
Our happiness must not depend on our men. They fight their own battles towards balancing on three legs. Until we leave them be, and return to ourselves to sit and soak in our own emotions, our own intuition, then we just support their egos (and our wounded ones!) We cannot remain mute. It doesn’t serve the Goddess, Pachamama, Life. So let us nestle into own silent space and make big room for our invisible altars, the ones that burn in our intimate chambers of the heart. We deserve to be heard, consulted, honored, adored, and we know just how to satisfy that by doing it to ourselves first. The rest is just dessert.
Do not Meditate (or do anything, really!) to make yourself feel better. We practice mindfulness to remember that beyond the fields of our minds, our judgements and our stories, there is a crystal mirror that tells the truth. It is the transparent canvas where the spinning wheel of madness (aka Samsara) splashes its colors and paints its rainbow dramas, paints the ego’s inflation and destruction, resistance, and enthusiasm. Watch the art show, put your nose right up against the pane and watch it carefully, get to know all the colors. Yoga is unifying with what IS, not what we want, including the desires for peace and happiness. We move out of suffering by entering it, choosing to become allies with it, and then, letting it wash clean. We women are the living manifestation of the Cycle of Life, Death, Life, honor that cycle in all it’s hues.
Get angry. It feels good to show the fangs, to growl into the darkness, to shoot arrows at the stars like warning flares. It feels good to want to live, to want to chew on the meat of existence, to get sweaty and naughty and wild. That’s how we feed our dancing lobas. We dance to feed our inner bitches.
Long live feminine alliance. Long live the circles we create to commune about all that we learn and all that remains mysterious. Long live the sincere conversations, conspirations, consolations, cosmovisions. Long live our hands that hold each other to the Light, that hang onto the dignity that resides in that pelvic lining.