There is an invisible pulse, a pulse called resilience. It swims in our blood, it has nothing to do with the clothes that we wear nor the feathers in our hair. It is a pulse that beats through the blood of women around the world. Through the girl children that they bare, through the mothers who take care. It is our inherited birth right. For the fact that we do more than survive, that we have such a force that we have been forced to rise. To rise beyond glass ceilings whilst reeling through all that has bound us. Our bodies, like this earth have been colonialized. Our uterine tubes renamed, our wombs removed to cure our rage, our blood shamed and turned to toxic waste. Indeed. What a waste. Yet throughout this all there has been the sound of that steady throb, the war cry of women, who have ripped off their corsets, bit off their reigns, and licked their wounds to reveal what is really valuable, truly beautiful. The high heels kicked away and the soul of the earth allowed to whisper to the soles of our feet. Ready to run, to climb the cliffs of impossibility, to dive into the waves that wash free, free any idea of whom or what woman should or shouldn’t be.
For it is a force of power so tremendous that at times we’ve had to be silent, to wipe off the make-up and write the words “we are not for sale” on our own cheeks. We have watched as pachamama has been used as a resource rather than honoured as The Source, and in solidarity, we have rose to say that we have more than one role. We have closed our legs and entered forbidden circles, we have published novels, spun on our heads, walked on our hands, led armies, protected our families, thrived through betrayal. We have fought for our souls. Our grandmothers have been burnt at the stake, and those flames still live on in our eyes. We have reclaimed our sacred blood, the life giving blood in our wombs and now we listen to its code. For this code reveals the memory of forgetfulness, for at times we have all forgot, that as the moon waxes and wanes, as the leaves fall from the trees, as the sun gives way to the night, the inhale to the exhale, then so to do the times of domination, occupation, patriarchal contamination give way to one of deep listening, deep respect, deep honouring for all that we are: The young and the old, the wise and the bold, the maiden and the crone, the strength that cannot be named, the resilience of our wild beauty, the pulse of the feminine. The pulse, which sounds, through all, of our veins.
So now is the time, more than ever before, to open the door and allow that ancient sound, from the time when women were real women and men were real men, to fully roar.