The Scriptures of Sovereignty: Part Two
What does it look like to trust yourself?
What does it look like to reign reverence upon your own paved road, to honor the suffering as much as the saintliness, the aching imperfections and the deliciously autonomous moments of sovereignty?
To rest your eyes for a moment on the pages which you never before dared to read. The ones which became blurred by dust and dogma and righteous ambiguity. The ones of those most potent books held in the haunted hellfire and liquid alchemy and blazing prophecy of your enchanted inner sanctuary.
It has to be that it looks like the incredible beauty and the blooming rose with its erratic unpredictable thorns and alluring capacity for growth. It has to be that it feels impossibly alive the way the distinct dance of snowflakes spiral in the winds around you, and melt in to you as your sweetest beloved.
When the partition of an old you and a new you stills into a graceful bridge, ice melting and tears held holy in a glass jar upon the altar in your heart chamber.
There where the faint cries of your inner child are woven into a harmony, eyes blinking wide at the magnitude of the pine cone, at the ecstasy it resonates. When you take the hand of your own wholesome self and lick the wounds which bleed into your fragmented memory.
When prayer does nothing but everything to bind you to the everlasting knowing of your spiritual essence.
What does it look like to own it all? To ravish the ripples of shame with lovemaking so divine, so heavenly, you kiss your own forehead in the mirror with fucking honor. You crown the warrior within you for carrying this weight, this often unbearable tryst between you and you.
To accept the wild roars of your darkest shadows and allow yourself to go belly up in the woods naked pounding the ground with your fist and screaming bloody freedom. To unleash your repressed feminine without shame and allow yourself to fucking feel with every inch of you, to expose your heathen madness.
To own your perceived faults and throw your fears to the sky like a silken web. To watch them take form as a mesmerizing mandala and to mount it eight legged, savage eyed with fangs unfurled.
To be the empress of your own creative and destructive fertile world. Where grace and woe are met as light and shadow. The queen of your own ebbs and flows and the chivalrous knowing that rebirthing is inevitable. Wisdom-keeper of the cast iron cauldron, death before you and so life again.
Raven shapeshifter, a true and tried sovereign.
What does it look like to impale the road before you with your shield, your sword and declare it is done. No more devaluing and disowning your truth and no more fucking shame.
To chant hypnotic hymns by the fireside and allow that your stories be told as they never had before. To speak with so much behind your words that they penetrate even the most hidden realms of existence.
To declare that the Goddess has returned in her many faces and forms. A great purge is taking place, a reckoning and an unravelling. A great flood of feeling and of the most epic collective alchemy.
What does it look like to witness the love break through the trees in rays of light at dawn. That moment when sun and moon share the sky and that crisp blanket of untouched snow. The potential for any path, to mindfully make footsteps in any direction your illumined inner voice guides you, and which could very well be followed in by unknown seekers.
To own the responsibility and the courage it takes to exist now with inspiration and a deep devouring desire to ever explore the great mystery.
What does it look like to curl up in a lush garden, in utter devotion and gratitude, to press your ear to the earth, and to synchronize your breath and your heartbeat with hers? To drink in the scent of sunflowers and dress yourself in the soft petals of sacred humility.
To rewrite herstory, as the unburnable Scriptures of Sovereignty.