We are the Wolf Women of the New Earth

March 7, 2020



We are the Wolf Women of the New Earth.


Priestesses of the Sacred Howl.


Red Cloaked Magicians.


Shapeshifting Sovereigns.


Guardians of the Untamed Forests.


Oracles of the Orphaned Self. 


Grail Bearers of the Wild Feminine Mysteries. 


We stand, bare breasted and yellow eyed, scent locked on the dying corpse of the patriarchy. The will of a word inscribed upon fleshy countenance, and subtly falling aside as we open the way for the rest. There was a time when we would be poached for bearing our pelts so proudly, for fondling our own furs and letting our mouths water at a vision of our wounded prey. 


But nostalgia licks our sharpened claws as we tear across the land, bearing teeth and thundering in the deep cadence of our ancestral memory. When to this day we are dismissed for the potency of our most inherent gifts.


We know that far beyond the burdened victim, and far superior to the power-driven separation, there is the pack. There is the coven, the community, the grove, and the space where we stare out into the twilight eyes, both inspired and proud. 


We listen and hear that our unique howl is what breaks open the skies and when joined in unison it is not just a lifted sword and chalice, but a sweet drizzling sap from the Birch tree. A nectar of potentiating life force. The beginning and the freedom.


There is a majesty that comes with the erupting fury of holding ages of repression in an aching womb. An alchemical power so surreal and so magnetic, it is completely unseen to the dull eye. 


The Wolf Women prowl in the world between worlds, hidden always in the lush foliage and the enchanting mystery. Attempt to outwit us and find only mirrors. 


We leverage lone moments as precious stillness with self, when the crippling darkness has us lurking in the nude shadows of the midnight woodlands. Hunting our own demons for pleasure. And the cathartic release when the agony becomes ecstacy and the wisdom becomes a sacred rite. Scrying scriptures leather-bound and mad in the magick trance. Moved by the rhythmic pounding of the frame drum as it beats and pulses in harmony with the blood of a million breathing trees. 


We feel the ground shaking beneath our feet and we rise up in our ritual dance. We howl louder and louder for this is the stampede of the gagged Priestesses. We are spitting out the cotton from our mouths, with each fierce quake of the morbid inequality that has plagued this planet. Those who have been screaming truth for centuries stand with us now in Spirit form, gathering the remnants of cotton to weave a great blanket, to put to rest the heaving hierarchy of the wounded.


We have no fear of changing conditions, for no straight lines exist on the unapologetic landscapes of natures sweating nape. The elements empower us, fluid, fragrant and free. We chant the flora and fauna into thriving serenity. They flourish when our voices are heard.


We are the dreamtime, the storytime, the very capacity to imagine life into being. 


Yes we gather in generations around the sacred wells, anointing one another and threading prayer at the loom. Whispering with the plants and the pregnant moon above us. Maidens, Mothers and Crones. We hold our heads high when bleeding for humanity, breathing love over our mothers densest anxieties, and holding the fragile bones of our storytelling grandmothers.


May it be known deeply, far and wide, that the holy trinity is burned timelessly with hot ash upon our silver brow, since they had us bound and condemned for our sacred howl. 


We are the Wolf Women of the New Earth.



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