Our wrinkles and sags.
Our drooping.
Our dropping.
Pulling us to the Earth.
Cell by cell.
Drawing us down, close enough to grow roots.
Close enough to become One.
We are women.
Knowing creatures.
Created from a wrinkle
In the One Who Knows hips.
We are preserving female tradition.
We stand in the mundane,
While we dance with spirit manifest.
Our ears prick to the sounds of the future.
Our eyes flicker to the sight of our ancient past.
One foot in the world and one foot the psychic land.
All while rocking a baby upon our hips.
As we look in the mirror
And we pour upon our own milky eyes,
We must see that we have given birth to an infant universe.
We are the thread of humankind.
We may throw on many costumes
We may take on many guises.
But when we decide to finally remove our veils,
We must remember that our dress-up box is the story of our life.
We can call ourselves by any name.
High name.
Low name.
New name.
Ancient name.
We remain what we are.
Woman.
The tradition of the feminine.
Walking in these bones.
Becoming.
From Maiden to Crone.
Our right of passage.
An unparalleled journey.
Our most deepest honour.
