The Lion and the Wolfe.

“It’s about looking inward and blooming outward. It’s about navigating the world as a woman, balancing strength and softness and connecting with the divine feminine. It’s an incantation and an offering… what do these songs stir in you? What do they help you remember? What do they awaken?”

-Chelsea Wolfe, regarding her new album Birth of Violence.

These illuminating words were sent to my email today, along with further information on Chelsea Wolfe’s new album. I recently listened to this, along with an album by a group I cannot recall, their cover art like a sky full of fractals, and the newly released album “Fear Inoculum” by Tool. This was an intense, ego-shattering event in honor of the September 13^th Full Moon.  Going in, I thought I would be compelled to write; instead, I died. The creative energy did not seek me out until today.

When I say I died I don’t mean it figuratively. My human self immediately desired the sweet relief I’ve believed death to be, but my soul wanted freedom and fought for the human experience to continue. My soul was in crisis- a void of nothingness. I tuned into the frequency of pain I feel in my dreams when the shadow man appears, then successfully kills me. A wrenching pain that I hardly know how to describe. A searing pain that crawls up my spine and can be felt prominently in my upper back, neck, and heart. I leaned into that feeling and stayed, not wanting to, but needing to. It fucking hurt and I thought I might never get out of it. Most of the music is a blur, lost in the moment, until Chelsea Wolfe’s lyrics filled the air like a huge sigh of relief.

After the more aggressive, masculine energy served by the first group (and then cemented by Tool’s percussion), the soft, haunting voice of Chelsea Wolfe emanating from the speakers took me back into my own body and brought me to the divine feminine- the place I want to be. Before that, I was gone, and death was surprisingly real and final. I must have sobbed from fear and pain for at least an hour, the entire time with my arms holding onto my fetal positioned body as tight as possible. I dared not let go.

“The lion and the wolf. Gnarling at eternal sleep. Let it burn. Hear it groan. Restrained desire. Cast it down. I cannot stop. I want to be all things. I’ve got to let it go. I want to be all things.”

These lyrics chill me to the bone. And in that moment, they were my refuge. The beginning of the song Be All Things states, “Walking the old path turned me towards death” That’s what I faced. I have tried to enter the realm of my shadow several times before, and in my own way have succeeded, but I was unaware of how deep I could now go. The man taking me through this experience, a figure of wisdom, safety, and love, was no longer that for me. This time he was a catalyst of chaos. My eyes burned looking upon him and I thought even just that action would surely kill me. I was in his fortress of Hell. He had tricked me and was getting what he’d wanted all along- to murder me.

“What the fuck, I’m truly dying right now?!” my soul cried out in anguish. “Please, no! I’m not ready to die. Why? How could you?!”

I was outraged, then sad and silenced. I let the overwhelm settle within me and suddenly the end came. Never again would I smell the fresh rain. I wouldn’t see the Full Moon gleaming through the tree branches; the sacred tree I always notice from outside the window, with its blue painted eye, always there, and always aware.

My love would forever burn alone.

I experienced four deaths.

First, immense pain in the dark underworld, an alluring cave of wonder alight with red candles, red velvet, and raging flames. The man was a spiteful liar, a vengeful leader, a demon or angel, like Lucifer, so radiant in appearance, but hateful in his presence.

Second, drowning, unlike ever before. There was no calm, peaceful release. He pushed me into the depths and held me there. I could not relax. I could not take it. The water stung my throat and chest.

“When anger turns to honey. In moments like this, I can understand you, for pain is the great connector.” Chelsea’s words ring through me as I write.

Third, death of feelings and emotions. I was reconstructed as a robotic figure—a metallic being distinguished by the inability to express myself. I was still my soul, but trapped, never to be an eccentric artist again. Surely that would lead to a death of the soul.

Fourth, complete silence. I no longer registered music. I would forever float in the void, nothing to see or hear, no experiences to be had. Time and space did not exist. That must have been when Tool nearly finished playing, after the stimulation of chimes, gongs, and sound bowls.

When I heard the rawness and warmth of Chelsea Wolfe’s voice, I experienced the joy of simply hearing and feeling again. I wrapped myself into a cocoon of safety with my own healing energy, ignited by the goddess, and comforted my fear with compassion and love. Divine feminine energy drove out some of the darkness, like a blue ribbon tying up loose ends. I was made whole, body and soul, and submitted to the strums of the guitar as I settled into my strengthened bones. My delicate skin. My home.

The words “I want to be all things” resonate in such a heart illuminating way. I can’t be everything. I am a woman and a daughter, but not a mother. I'm not ashamed, but sometimes society makes me feel as though I should be. I crave deep connection and vulnerability, but hesitate because it’s painful. I want to live expressively, but oftentimes I find it safer to pour my words into a secret jar that I keep hidden, even from myself. I hesitantly choose to lean back into the pain from earlier, once again searing, until an earth-shattering storm erupts. Thunder and lightning. I observe myself curled up in my own womb, fragile but safe, not yet cracked open. I can be that again. Just because I had to break does not mean I will stay broken. The divine goddess energy is a reminder that I am still alive and have more work to do. I’m strong enough for that.

The folk-like sound ends and shifts to a new sound and new voices; actually, not new, just different, and all too familiar. I hear: “Dark red. Light years. Brought near. Cold gone. I want to lie in.” Beach House, of course. This band's music seems to follow me. My body finally feels like my own again and I just lay on the padded floor, inspired to stay awake and just be. The man hands me a clear crystal to hold tightly in my right hand. The light from the still flickering candle hits the opalescent fragment perfectly to form hues of blue and yellow. Lemon glow. “The color of your mind” sings to me in a trance.

Time passes.

11:11 hits and I am still in a trance, pressed against my stomach, limbs stretched out. “I just want to take up space”, I think to myself, perhaps for the first time ever.

“Love is you”, whispers to me.

Eventually the strength to go outside came and I was not prepared for the emotion that would arise from seeing the Full Moon—a glowing orb of hope. Officially Friday the 13^th, the time of werewolves and spirits. The moon stared me down, and though I thought I might go blind, I could not look away. I stood in the middle of the street sobbing, the air inviting and healing, asking me to present my pain and then let go. A storm of emotions caught up to me and I became an expression of sorrow, then elation.

No longer undone, I took a deep breath, then released.

The Dark Mother

The clock strikes 4:00 a.m. and I can feel Death.

It sits beside me in silence.

I wonder what it’s thinking.

Though I dare not ask, for I fear the pain of it.

I dare not run, for in my weakened state,

I may fall, and Death shall not catch me.

I'm sure it will press its foot upon my head, bend down to meet my gaze,

Then blow my eyes shut with its numbing breath.

In its seething presence, I feel isolated and silenced.

A smoke infused breeze comes in through my window and gently pulls the white, 

lacy curtain away from the windowpane.

Alien lights, resembling an aurora, delicately remove the darkness 

exposed by the sage moon.

Blue and green shades blend together in a collaborative frenzy, 

like pastel charcoal masterfully drawn across the canvassed ceiling. 

An eruption of sunrise skies fills me with joy, and then a deeply stirred peace.

Death is my friend. My companion. My lover.

My sensei offering a critical lesson.

Death covets and honors me. And then, vanishes.

Now is not the time for us to embrace. I must not ignore timing’s pace.

So I acknowledge my dark companion’s truth. Death is not to be feared, nor asked for. 

I close my eyes and let the sounds of the wind fill my mind.

As though in a dream, my body starts to meld under a blanket of stars.

The wind becomes waves. Water in motion.

My metamorphosis from girl to sea, 

I’m suddenly flowing down, down, down, toward the undiscovered me. 

A grey beast stands near this aqueous, indigo rabbit hole, howling at the moon.

Death is a wolf; an opener of the underworld; an expression of the wild instinct, 

showing the way to creative healing.

I have seen these depths before. In the presence of Death,

I have experienced emotional and physical pain and release.   

By drowning in the waters of my faith and the blood of my ancestors, 

I have slowly risen to the surface to breathe in new life.

I feel the changing season ahead and a spark of inspiration.

The shadow returns.

I finally look Death in the eyes because no longer can I ignore it.

The site is grotesque and beautiful. I dare not look away.

The Death I sit with is the goddess of the Autumn Equinox.

She can be seen naked with three eyes and hair undone, 

framed by a crown as golden as the sun, blood dripping from her stuck out tongue.

She lifts up her right hand and forms her long fingers into a symbol.

The mudra for “fear not!”

Death is Kali. The Dark Mother. She is the womb of the universe.

She is Time itself.

A destructive force from whom purification and peace are possible.

She loves to create, just as she loves to kill.

Death is a divine paradox.

Now I ask Death what she is thinking with a tremor in my voice.

A soft whisper from her bloody lips tingles my skin, like the truest form of ASMR. 

“Your initiation is not over, for it has just begun. In order to understand life, you must first understand me. Put your ego to rest and pick up a pen. You are still a seed, my love, born to create. Drink more water and rise once again!”

Discovery Under Neith

I am in the process of determining who I am meant to be.

I wonder to what extent the result Is up to me.

When I take a deep breath I see a Banyan tree,

Aerial roots extending from Earth to sky, a star stained night, the moon’s light cast.

In order to understand and see, there is much that I must look past, 

Even more I must look within. A nuance of grey shades I mustn’t ignore. 

Another identity is reflected by my eyes, too often rejected and despised,

Drowned by an inner battle against self that God implores be spared,

A shadow coiled inside of me that I often dare not share. 

She is trying to break free. She is trying to thrive.

I’ve been dreaming about arachnophobia. 

Trapped by a web of thoughts, my senses are haunted by spiders. 

They lace my hair around my throat and discover home throughout my veins. 

I feel the spinners trickle down my spine

Like a broken faucet,

Thirsting for not quite human blood. 

I could be an alien. I’m crawling out from the mud.

When I dance alone in my room I instinctively move my lengthy limbs.

My arms and legs bend and twine in a furious trill,

A spiral maneuver, like octopus tentacles,

Forming a cephalopod sphere to make the outside world disappear. 

In my underwater freedom I unwind as I please 

Swimming in my own web woven tears, an unseemingly waltz, where comfort’s fear interferes no more.

As Sufjan composed curiosity pulses my ears,

I discover in my underworld an enchanted mirror,

The voice of Ascension upon me, I now look and see, ‘Tis my truest self reflected so that I can be free. 

A green skeletal mermaid with spider’s legs and the face of a deer, 

Goddess of Neith, her reflection both sinister and clear,

Her ancient mane of white waves flowing from beginning to end, ancient locks that frame her indigo irises, my own shadow’s mirrors unveil the pearl I’d dove to see, a widow living in a tree, with a web woven sense to mend.

A creative with such power, to no one would she cower,

This me from my past I never could show,

Undine now observed as both siren and doe.

My slow sensual integration I shall dare not let go.

A wake of unsought energy ensues as I make my way back

To the shoreline of home, where I wish to sit upon my totem’s throne. 

A sacred, sculpted symbol for my shadow’s impetuous, sodden soul.

I watch divine love patterned in all surrounding waters

And sense God’s eternal love for all of history’s and future’s daughters. 

I experience a sudden heat wave of golden fire.

As if with my lover enflamed by tantric desire.

My inner turmoil no longer aware,

My dance with shadow did cast out despair,

For my initiation with Undine and Neith committed yin and yang together,

A silver pair by God’s Grace, no awareness could be better.

The spider and eye have always been one 

To remain as our undying, holy sun, 

Who surely designed this path that is me.

Above, under, and inside, a thriving Banyan tree.

All of me all along in the soil. 

Upon this discovery I take another deep breath, release, and uncoil. 

Seven Stars

Seven Worlds

Seven Hands

Seven Stars

The number seven rings though my fingers.

One circle. One sphere. One sparkle.

Times seven.

What’s in my reach I never grasp.

I’m motivated by the above.

I’m inspired by the below.

The music swims though my ears.

The words tattoo my bones.

Heaven’s number draws connections.

Invisible hands to my head and my heart.

Seven things to count in all that I don’t see.

When I look up, Seven Sisters.

The Pleiades.

Our Moon

Everything has been connecting.

Each meaningful conversation that I have with others

Launches thoughts that I have had before,

Though I cannot recall.

An internal whisper, “Not only are you not alone, but the homeless woman

Seemingly alone on the streets isn’t either.”

In some ways we are the same. She has the goddess inside her.

I sense that she knows it.

She braves cold weather and has blusterous conversation with nobody,

Or perhaps a lost love. She screams in agonizing pain and in doing so

Shows a strength that I am not using. She is letting go.

Releasing frustration and anger. She is bravely feeling deeply.

I am walking in silence and refusing to join in expression.

I’m afraid.

She is too but she also knows what it is to be feared. Dehumanized.

I’m comfortable being invisible and she may not even associate with comfort.

I’m plagued with the desire for it, but I already have it.

I own a bed surrounded by walls that block out wind and rain.

If I need water I need only walk down the hall.

She engages her own being, made of similar water

Containing magic.

I bet she deep breathes more than I do.

She is whom she knows.

She is wild and living free from time and his constraint.

She is observing the world, aware of relationships, warm soil, sodden concrete,

And the direction of the moon and constellations.

She needn’t Google Maps or social media affirmations.

She dances to the beat of her own drum, which she fashioned

Together with sticks, broken hair ties, and a box of stale fries.

She emanates peace and openness to any kind gesture.

A smoke or change.

We all need a little change, yet we are often afraid to ask for it.

I’m not always willing to ask for the help necessary.

I put the burden on myself, and soak up other’s burdens.

When I extend a hand to help whomever, especially those I love,

I want to die when I’m refused.

Just let me carry your load.

Please accept this glass of water.

Call out my name and desire my embrace.

Validate me.

She more often than not is refused help and that empowers her more.

She just wants to live.

When a stranger or loved one does help, it’s never me. That I can’t understand.

As I said, in some ways, the homeless woman on the streets is just the same as me.

I either insist she take the nourishment I have on hand,

Even if she is allergic or suppressed of appetite,

Or I insist I’ve no change to spare,

As it rattles in my pockets.

More and more I see myself in her.

The Wild Woman.

I wish I knew how to properly connect with her.

I wish I knew how to look her/me in the eyes and confess,

“I understand. I feel your pain. I’m with you now. I love you.”

Disconnection and fear plague me. After passing by the woman, I stop.

Standing still I close my eyes,

Inhale the forthcoming winter air deep into my lungs,

And exhale silence.

I imagine a scream. It’s her.

The goddess resides inside of her and her within me.

She was never homeless. Home is with us.

I turn back and this time we make eye contact.
She was patiently waiting to be seen and heard. We are now connected.

It feels safe to approach her and in doing so, 

I spot a shiny flat sphere upon the pavement.

“Here”, I say. “Accept this quarter, won’t you?”

“I will not”, she responds matter-of-factly, and then continues;

“You found that for yourself, love. That is your moon.”

Somehow understanding, I then sat beside her and offered her my jacket.

Lone behold when I looked up, there was the moon.

My moon. Our moon.

Blanketed by velvet sky and accompanied by Venus, the sphere called to us.

Our names—the same name.

Wild Woman.

We responded in song; a prayer of howls.

Never had I felt so alive.

Inspired by Rich McCloud

Music ignites authenticity and love.

Music engages hearts and forms deep impenetrable connections.

Music invites our emotions to pour from us like water from a shattered dam.

Music calls us to submit to pain and release fear.

Music calls us to submit to joy and not be ashamed.

Music is freedom.

Music sounds like a chorus of angels when the last hour of work comes.

Music tastes like a warm drink infused with dark chocolate and molasses.

Music smells like essential oils and old dog-eared pages.

Music is eye opening like an ego diffusing psilocybin trip.

Music does not segregate or forsake.

Music fuels our souls like spinach fuels Popeye’s strength.

Music requires our undivided attention.

Music communicates truth.

Music attaches wings to our feet.

Music inspires beautiful disasters.

Music is a miracle.

Music enlightens our minds and erases our doubts.

Music belongs to everyone regardless of a, b, c, or d.

Music takes time, energy, and passion.

Music produces time, energy, and passion.

Music releases spirit.

Music is the guardian angel that keeps us afloat when the tide comes in too close.

Music is prayer written in the stars.

Music is the loudest form of silence.

Music is a breath of fresh air.

Music is alive.

Music is ancestral and extra-terrestrial.

Music takes us home.

Music is in us.

Opening

*This is a piece that I wrote on February 11th of 2015. Two separate stories, one based on my own experiences and dreams, the other based on the animated film "Anastasia, both linked by anxiety,  opportunity, and self-discovery.

Opening

Sleep was impossible that morning, once anxiety decided to pay a visit and fill the small void between the wall and the body at rest, coiling itself around every restless limb. 2:30 a.m. and already it was time to rise and begin another day.  She quietly pulled away the covers, rolled out of bed, and gingerly placed her feet upon the floor, attempting not to disturb her easily awakened roommate. Glancing out the window to the dark, brooding streets that curved around her apartment, she noticed nothing new, just the same path marked permanently by her shoe prints. Not even bothering to wear a suitable amount of layers for the particularly chilly weather, she grabbed her thermos, book, and oversized bag, and hurriedly made her way to the outside.

She slowed her pace when the earth met her feet. She knew very well what was to come as soon as she spotted her destination down the street—the same door that greeted her every morning. She stopped and closed her eyes, allowing the untamed breeze to stroke and chill her cheeks. She had no desire to step any further, until she felt tension course through her as the chill in the air increased and strained her breath, causing her to feel light headed, yet weighed down at the same time—for a moment she was suspended in space, surrounded by endless possibilities that were reflected by the stars, yet unable to grasp them because of the tightly clasped wires that held her in place.

Continuing her path and facing the blundering wind, which had claimed the streets and marked its territory, breaking branches and carrying the fallen leaves along the way, she felt like a sodden leaf left behind, waiting to be carried by this enigmatic force to a new place of adventure and impressionable beauty. Instead, she was to spend more countless hours on monotonous work—in which a more serious, focused attitude was necessary. She unlocked the plain, grey door and stepped inside, anxiety following closely behind like a curious companion.

 There she stood, tall and neutral in appearance, with long brown hair of oak, and scuffed shoes of mahogany, hinged by the monotonous obligations of her too predictable life, like a used door, passed by every day by strangers, neighbors, and lovers alike, faded in the background as an object designed merely to adhere and be silent, expected to open up to all visitors at their convenience, letting them in only to immediately be slammed shut, forgotten, and left to be handled again.

She took to mind exploration, traveling to new and exotic places, relying on imagination to experience newly discovered euphoria, such as that which comes from climbing the perfect tree with branches stretching and reaching new heights and new, awe-inspiring sights, like that same tall, wooden door—the door she was staring at in that moment—for she new that everything would change if only she could reach its threshold.

Suddenly, she felt a shift in her step and she was walking straight ahead toward a simultaneous entrance and exit. Designed with intricate panels, lit by the ever-flickering glow of a candle that danced like a frantic fairy in search for a way around the woods, its presence demanded her attention. She noticed that which often went unnoticed. If not for the inhibited sensation that had overcome, her exuded curiosity would have lead her astray. The door silently mocked her and invited her to step closer to reach for its carefully crafted exterior—a wall with a handle that, if grasped, would certainly refuse to budge; unless of course the door was actually unlocked and left for the sake of escape and discovery, like the wardrobe that contained a passage to Narnia.

She mentally unveiled the cover and anticipated the future, feeling her shoes sink into a surface of earthly sap that insisted she stay and allow more time to pass, for which she chose to ignore. If instead she chose to follow suit and engage purely in the standard, arranged plan, then joy would not become her, and the company of unwanted loneliness and stagnancy would seek her out further. She took a deep breath and reached for the door handle.

***

“He opened a wall”, the orphan Anya stated in revelation, curious as to how it could have been possible, and amazed at the improbable recollection. Indeed that was how she and her grand mama had escaped from the evil man’s curse of death upon that distant fortnight. The Romanov line had not been eliminated and she had a lot to be grateful for, especially the opened wall, like a door secretly waiting to be discovered: a door with an ability to transport a desperate passerby to another realm of freedom and safety.

“I’m sorry, that’s impossible, walls opening…” Anya concluded in disbelief, after further consideration.

Then again, if it had not opened, how had she escaped? Because she had… she had escaped and, though her true identity was still an unsolved mystery, she did know that the memories flooding her mind, like a deep body of water filled with opulent, re-surfaced treasure, were vivid and felt increasingly real and paramount. As she continued to think about the night that had erased her memories, like a cherished photo album depleted in an unforeseen house fire, lying scared and alone across the pavement, and accompanied by the bitter frost of freshly fallen snow, she recalled the fear that had occupied her every fiber for the short time that she was held captive.

Images of the room appeared, shaded and small, with one window concealed by striking red curtains that lightly draped over an old doll house, set by the sill, from which a flight of green demonic creatures emerged, filling the air with streams of deceased dreams and awakened nightmares. At the time, Anya whole heartedly thought that was the end and that her body would be left to rot in seclusion, until a young boy, whom she had seen before from somewhere within the castle, appeared from opposite the viridescent stained doll house, and motioned for her to join him in the mysterious spacing behind the wall.

However, she could not. Exhausted of her former independence, Anya found that her legs were suddenly paralyzed and devoid of all feeling, The boy saw her desperation and plead, “Come this way, out the servant’s quarters!” and quickly grabbed her hand, then pushed her through the door-like opening, which led to a hidden passage and, furthermore, to Anya’s deliverance. Everything she had known was left behind.