Wild Woman

We  have lost touch with the essence of Wild Woman. Sure we hear the word, we hear it like a title said with the same air as the word Queen yet seperated from it’s inherent nobility.

 We see poems and inspiring literary depictions of it. We may even see flashes of it from time to time in the writhing heaving body of woman in sacred birth space, in the death and sorrowful outcry of a loved one or the purest hatred of a woman scorned. She has many wild faces.

We see it’s packaging but not it’s bloody raw guts,  not it’s  pulsing hot sex, nor it’s mountainous war cry which cuts the air like a blade and brings both sky and the armies of the mundane below it to it’s knees. Dramatic?! Yes…. but She is dramatic, she makes you uncomfortable. It’s her power.

Nowdays, wild woman is a brand, a fashion statement if you will, a means of attracting cash or notoriety. It’s empty and shallow. It’s the lost art of being free or at the very least unapologetic. It has become watered down, redused if you will to a good “fuck off” or face slap or less violently put a solid “No” without the need to explain why. Is this really our Wild Womans powerful legacy??? Surely not.

Wild Woman has always lived in the deeds. In the marriage between rage and impulse. In the unquenchable thirst for vengeance or victory. That restless thing that causes our feet to itch, our heart to race, adrenaline to surge and risks our manogamy causing us to rage against the stiffling social confines of normality.

The pages of history are littered with the examples of Wild Woman but our modern world… not so much.

Instead today we see the illusion of it, we see it’s  hollow shell. We see the tamed woman hiding behind a sea of plastic and pathetic excuses, tucked quietly there behind fear and layers of self sabotage, weakness and societal bounderies. Dying little by little in the should haves and the could haves that pulls at us in the stillness of the night. I belive they call that regret.

We see products aimed at our Wild Woman at hiding or minimising the very wrinkles that time has gifted woman for living this human experience and the embodiment of the Sacred Feminine. Each wrinkle and line the very proof that we haved indeed lived. We see lotions and balms and organic vegan time reversals aimed at concealing the very byproduct of life and it’s variouse stages. It’s sad.

We see a materialistic world hell bent on youth and youthful appearance rather than the noble honouring of woman through her many transitions.

A photo, costume or arse shaking video doesn’t a wild woman make. It’s in the deeds. It always had been.

Am I a wild woman? No, no I’m not. Why? Because I live here… behind these man made walls with the comfort of running water and a machine to keep me cool when its sweltering. I wash my cloths in a washing machine and sleep on a bed adorned in Egyptian cotton sheets.

But at night when my babies and husband sleep, I dream of her. I dream of the sacred wildness and that powerful capable presence I have often felt in times of instability. I call these my wild times.

I think of her often, I think of Bodicca great celtic warrior and chieftain. I think of the legendary Amazons who lopped off a bossom to improve their archery skills. I think of Oya who wields a sword and governs tempests; I think of Eleanor of Aquitaine both Dutchess and Countess who lived a life of adventure thus defying her age and era.

I see her, my wild woman as always living in the deeds. In the doing not the saying in both creation and destruction. She is the ghost that haunts me.

But! I did touch her whilst in Rio this March 2016. I felt her as I entered dangerous neighborhoods and pounded violent steets. I felt her in my awareness as I guarded my body and moved through a culture that has grown out of control.

I tasted her, it was like blood in my mouth as the woman that birthed me raged under the grip of her ugly mental illness.

I have felt her kindness or more so her fairness and I have felt her wrath. I have felt her during childbirth in the womb song that propelled my youngest daughter out into this world.

I know her, I know what feeds her. I know where she lives but am oftentimes fearful of going there because whenever I do, whenever I meet her face to face. A great many things change.

It’s a funny thing

My Wild Woman

“She hisses at me, wild and ferral.
Unbridled wickedness and cunning,
The bright spark of honor in her eye.

She stomps her mighty bare foot on the ground below and the impact awakens something boundless inside me.

She dances and sings and screams for an ecstatic existence,

She is my Wild Woman, my honor, lust, passion, sex, madness. My grand creatrix the muse of all muses.”

Avalon Cameron