“The wolf bones … represent the indestructible aspect of the wild Self, the instinctual nature, the criatura dedicated to freedom and the unspoiled, that which will never accept the rigors and requirements of a dead or overly civilizing culture.”
“To sing means to use one’s soul voice. it means to say on the breath the truth of one’s power and one’s need, to breathe soul over the thing that is of one’s power and one’s need, to breathe soul over the thing that is ailing or in need of restoration. This is done by descending into the deepest mood of great love and feeling, till one’s desire for relationship with the wildish Self overflows, then to speak one’s soul from that frame of mind. That is singing over the bones.”
Our stories are our medicine, our soul vitamins as Estes calls them. One of the ways that we find the Wild Woman is through the telling of stories, the singing over these bones. It’s these bones that show us the door to our scars, and it’s through our deepest scars that Wild Woman is most easily reached. – from another wild woman – read more of her thoughts.
It has been a long time since I felt my wolf-self wild and vital inside me. I have become deadened, scattered, crushed, reduced down to a kind of existential dust, lost and detached. I do not like this, and at the same time I feel a thread of soul, pulling me deeper in, flashes of light, the only way out of the labyrinth is through.
A disconcerting return trip to my home country, my childhood house, seeing family and friends, being in old places, looking at old art, seeing photos from my early twenties, friends and lovers, and old stories.
Changing relationship, country, lifestyle, job – right now my whole world feels like a ripped up spider web, I have pieces of wispy strands in my hands, on the floor, wondering what the hell do I make with this? My mind is likewise in tatters – I grew up learning how to attach my identity to external image – given by parents, culture, school, and then later other people’s desire for me, and also by reactive rebellion against the norm. (This, I have come to realise, requires something to rebel against – you are still reliant on the matrix-system, simply to have something to oppose to. And if you never learn to create all you end up with is a gift of destruction and self-annihation. Is this truly at the core of me, as I fear, or do I have a deeper, more enduring more real desire to create?).
So the spider web of my life was attached to points given to me by others, by circumstance, and I wove with stress and determination. I don’t know if I created the external roles and images or if I just stepped into them. Right now I feel lost, without these structures, without a sense of my own art. Actually – I am not lost, but I am scared to go down the only direction that remains, which is to claim my own creativity, and to make of my life what I will, whilst dedicated-surrendering completely to the promises I made in my earlier life – to serve, to be here for purpose.
This is untidy writing but that is ok. As I write I begin to feel my womb, my creatrix centre. I feel the dark blood ready to release as my tide starts – another lost egg, another cycle of the moon. This last month, around my ovulation time, I went inside and found an alternative to the Mother – I found the red-dragon enchantress, she who claims her body for magic, the forces of genetic imperative and biological drive to be consumed, harnessed, chanelled for other Art. I am a both awed and scared of Her. She is who I can be, instead of a crying barren womb, I could emerge in power and grace by my 40’s – but then I will also be visible in the world, and that scares me. I see my desire and lust in her, and I also see in myself the wounded-masculine that wants to destroy that with lance and vision, kill it before it leaves the cave.
Writing is helping. This time I returned back to Canada with ALL my old journals and books – writing I collected in my twenties, my thoughts and my journey. I want to destroy or dismiss these words, scorn them and hate them for they remind me of a time I feel distant from. I also want to honour and respect them, and the vision-amazon of my twenties, the adventuring and consideration. I commit to reading through these bones, looking for what is still true, still me.
as for the spider-web– Spider is my shadow-creature, my feared creatrix. It seems I am coming to a point where I either claim this part of me or let her destroy me. Spiders do not fall apart when their webs are ripped up – they weave again, and again. They throw themselves into the abyss looking for points of contact. They also consume their old web-material.
Perhaps this is where I am – not just Singing over the Bones of my life, looking to bring meat and warm flesh back to them – but consuming the old threads, taking everything back in and using it to create anew. And instead of spinning within the branches and trees set up for me – to choose myself, deliberately, the points of contact, the places to hang and draw my web. I have withdrawn all my projections – those from myself and from others. And It is an incredibly uncomfortable place for me because it reveals my lack of Self, of identity, of purpose.
And yet – I can see, and I known, the stirrings of truth that come from my own beingness – that the answers are not forgotten but carried inside me. I have to go within to find them, and then live accordingly. I have no choice left but to create a life that is drawn from my inner-values. It is that or Death. All the other ideas, external identities, plans and missions – seem pointless, lifeless in themselves, meaningless and empty. I know deep down that having a child to Fill the Void is only a way to delay facing this.
I also wish to start creating Alchemy with my own Life – this is my chance to test the Hypothesis. To process, break down, distill, create, set up transmutation circles with my life and see what can emerge. So I will keep writing, and I will collect notes of my experiments, and we shall see.