The Wild Woman
If you look deep enough (and sometimes you have to look very deep down) within every woman is a wild, untamable, glorious beast.
No matter how petite or pristine or polished she may look, she is undoubtedly part mountain lion.
Or snow owl.
Or rattle snake, depending of course on where she’s been and who she’s traveled with.
In every woman there is an instinct - an impulse - for the fierce feminine; a wildness that can only be described as woman; a beautiful beast who doesn’t even know how to give a fuck about the opinion of others.
She feels intuitively at home in herself. She isn’t afraid to play, to pounce, to bound about, to draw claws, teeth and even blood if she must.
If she’s not careful, she can be fooled into believing that she’s a pussycat: domesticated; fluffy; sweet; presentable; maybe even a Pomeranian.
But it’s the feral nature that connects her to herself in a way that is so animal, it’s Divine.
It’s the feral nature which knows how to recognize and respond to a threat.
It’s the mountain lion that keeps her playful and spontaneous.
The jaguar who keeps her creative, engaged, excited about life.
The wild woman is born of the cycles and the rhythms of nature and although she is comfortable being raucous; racy; controversial there’s a purity in her actions because they align with instinctive and unpolished patterns.
The wild woman knows what is good for her and how much of it she needs. She knows how to defend herself and how to recognize what is harmful to her spirit.
The wild woman moves, sings, and puts pen to paper in a way that nourishes her. She knows that inspiration, art, whimsy, and play feed directly into a vital part of her soul.
But sometimes the wild woman goes to sleep.
This can be because of relationships that don’t see and support the wild woman; partners that are too rigid; work lives that are too demanding.
When the wild woman she forgets that she is only half human and half beautiful beast, she loses a lifeline to her soul.
She loses her inclinations to create, to express, and to share what’s important for her.
The comforts of a domesticated life can also create a terrible void: to a sense of meaninglessness; an inexplicable longing; a lack of purpose.
When the wild woman goes to sleep, so does a protective layer: she loses her fur and her whiskers. She’s no longer able to sense when the hairs on her arms stand upright, or to feel the fire in her belly when it warns her about boundaries, or suss out the subtle, hidden intentions of others.
When the wild woman goes to sleep, she becomes overly concerned with the opinions of others.
She becomes vulnerable to her own judgments, both of herself and of others.
She becomes vulnerable to the overconsumption of things that resemble freedom and remind her of her wildness (alcohol, drugs, sex, shopping, work, achievement, toxic relationships). Sometimes, she loses the ability to know when enough is enough and overtime, and creates further distance between her and her uninhibited inner lioness.
The worst symptom of domestication? It’s when the once wild woman can’t understand why doesn’t like who she sees when she looks in the mirror.
She forgets how to be alone with herself.
She forgets that she was wild once.
But the possibility of remembering is never very far away and it never disappears completely.
Anything that connects the once wild woman to the sacred is a lifeline back to her protective coat and whiskers.
Anything that moves her to her core, or brings tears to her eyes, or reminds her of the sacredness of her body breaths life back into the mountain lion.
Anything that compels her to move, sing, explore, create in a way that is more jaguar than Pomeranian, there is tangible re-connection.
Finding spaces and people who support her when she is unbrushed, untamed, unraveled and disheveled is very important for the wild woman.
This is how she remembers why she’s here.
This is how she gets her instincts back.
This is how life begins to feel true and sacred again.