Do you carry a very subtle fear of being fully in your wisdom, intuition, knowing and wildness? The cellular memory of being feared, and hurt or killed for your power…could still be living in your bones. It may be time to accept your fate and claim your place among us (as at this point, how’s our silence working for us? How big a risk is death anyway?)

Our silence has nearly killed us–let’s see what our voices and the reclamation of our deepest wisdom can offer to these dark times. Anne Sexton, thank you, owning our roots….

Poem of the Day: Her Kind

BY ANNE SEXTON

I have gone out, a possessed witch,

haunting the black air, braver at night;

dreaming evil, I have done my hitch

over the plain houses, light by light:

lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.

A woman like that is not a woman, quite.

I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,

filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,

closets, silks, innumerable goods;

fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:

whining, rearranging the disaligned.

A woman like that is misunderstood.

I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,

waved my nude arms at villages going by,

learning the last bright routes, survivor

where your flames still bite my thigh

and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.

A woman like that is not ashamed to die.

I have been her kind.