The rage I’m holding in my hands right now feels holy – sacred in its complete dissolution. Kali with her many arms flailing, weapons branded, teeth dripping with blood. Holy protection. Holy revenge. Holy rage.
And it scares me too.
Because this is the rage that wars are started from, especially when it is in the hands of men. When it is not given smoke and incense, candles and songs. Prayers for peace.
I have known this rage before. When I was in Hawaii, healing from Lone Wolf, excavating my depths. We called it the Beast back then, and I will never forget the night it overtook me, when I understood viscerally how murder happens.
The wild is waking up in all of us and we have no framework for how to handle this. Predators roam freely now. There is fear rippling through – locked doors and barred windows happening in the form of women and girls losing trust and faith in half of humanity.
The wild feminine is waking up too – and she is not the soft, pastel goddess of Instagram. She is fierce and bloodstained, with fangs and claws and teeth bared and ready. Sebulisa – the black salt dragon of chaos.
I remember when I first found her, all those years ago – a filthy child crouching in the corner, half-naked, hair matted, nails as long as claws, broken and shoved under with dirt. She spit and clawed and had no words, just vengeance and venom. My sacred rage.
I coaxed her out with trails of papaya and birdsong. Gave her liliquoi and long days with nothing but the sound of the waves on the sea. Was gifted with a pickaxe for her and a hole to dig in the lava rock – to plant trees in. To let her scream. I let her know that she was wanted and needed and valuable. That she had a sacred purpose. That I knew she stood for love and I was sorry she had been so misunderstood, caged and mistreated. One rock at a time.
She is a mother now. And while she has learned how to hold herself alongside others, head upright, how to embrace the holy silence and move through spaces mostly ignored, falling into the backdrop – she has not forgotten who she is. She is the mother bear, the fierce protector of those who have not yet developed the claws and muscle to protect themselves. And she will fight – to the death if she has to.
The wild is waking up in all of us. Not to be tamed – but to be understood. To be seen and heard and valued. To be given a rightful seat at the table.