Category Archives: Wild Woman

The Mute Woman

How to make a daisy crown

How to make a daisy crown

I made daisy crowns and dandelion necklaces.

I climbed trees with my knees scraping bark

to see what was on the other side of my neighbor’s fence

or down the hill, or off in the distance on a sea of treetops.

I drank water from the dog bowl to see if it tasted different.

I tried cat food to see if they liked things the same as me.

I wove elaborate stories, like plays,

that I repeated until I had them memorized

then performed them to blank-faced audiences of dolls.

I became a mosquito scratching relative legs until they sprayed me away.

I watched from my window, every day through winter to see the first robin of Spring.

I dashed wildly, madly through the scented Autumn leaves.

I splashed loudly in puddles

when I didn’t have on rain boots and when I did.

I drove a pedal car up and down the sidewalk in front of my home;

Mine was green, my brother’s blue.

I rode my bike as fast as the wind

skinning the ends from my toes for riding barefoot.

My baby doll became a real child needing care

right down to being walked in a baby buggy, pampered and cuddled.

I sang songs when there were people around

and when there wasn’t.

I wore the brightest clothes I owned with pride

but refused to wiggle my fanny at school for embarrassment’s sake

foregoing the envied bunny tail.

I dreamed of long hair like my favorite Aunts

but my hair was wild, unruly, and never behaved appropriately.

I played race car with the electric socket and a key

learning just how many people I could scare at one time.

I saw my world as beautiful, wondrous, and awe-inspiring.

My memories have not been muted, although faded a bit,

Dog-eared around the edges, notated and rewritten with crayons

reversed into a parking spot reserved for each one.

I take them out and drive them around adult conversations

but they get dismissed as comical fancies

disapproved of as childish rubbish.

But they’re wrong.

My childhood held many terrifying horrors.

I don’t think these wonders I hold in my memories are comical or rubbish.

They represented my soul unfurled like a battle-worn banner

proclaiming my liberty from my aggressive oppressors.

They were a time of exploration, learning, and comprehension.

They were and are my life boiled down to the simple things

that so many struggle toward, but I hold dear to my heart.

Traveling

Traveling

Traveling

My body probably won’t travel far.

I doubt I’ll dance among the stars

But, OH! The places that I dream to go.

I want to see New Years enter into Times Square

Eat cotton candy at the Iowa State Fair

I want to flash my boobs and earn my beads

for Mardis Gras in New Orleans

I want to experience Easter in Israel

 to visit London where the tower fell.

I want to drink a pint in a pub in Dublin

then head towards Venice with building crumblin’

I want to hear mass in Vatican City

to eat bread and cheese in Switzerland’s alps; pretty

I want to smoke a fatty while in Jamaica

head “Down Under” for some Sydney, Australia

I want Fourth of July in Washington, D.C.

then a week’s vacation in the Florida Keys.

To travel these places would make my heart sing

If I dream hard enough, I can imagine anything.

The Nomad

Come along and be a nomad with me.

Come along and be a nomad with me.

A Nomad once traveled from port to port,

for every face the Nomad met,

she searched for her own

trapped by her own design

fearful of herself

her own darkness hiding, only barely,

from her own sight.

The Nomad traveled from one end

of the world to the other

pausing only to learn and see

her soulful vision mirrored,

like an oasis,

back at her from the loving hearts

of other damaged spirits that wandered,

not quite as far as she,

from their own generational homes.

The Nomad rejected all roots

even those that moved her spirit

towards home. But, one day,

The Nomad sat at the edge of a great lake

witnessing the birds dance a complexity

backed by the setting sun that shadowed
the daytime heat with the promise of cool night.

The Nomad searched the sunlit blue

then the moonlit sparkles

She realized it was time to revive and reveal.

The Nomad danced abandon as she’d observed

the flight of her con-spirit-ors do

She slithered with colorful scarves

pouring rainbow colors from her fingers,

releasing all that no longer served

or caused her fear and anguish.

The nomad danced in large spirals

on the sands of the shore

revealing a fleshy spirit

ripe with juicy sweetness

filled to overflowing with kindness

that leaked onto her spirit

with compassionate ribbons of hope.

The Nomad wandered back across her path

carefully touching, delicately expressing

but growing bolder, more adept with her

new nudity, transparently clothed about her

Genuine in joy and with a resolved spirit

The Nomad settled into a new life

one more bountiful, wonderful, and thrilling

than any she had found in her journeys.

The Nomad’s own backyard filled with wonderful

The Nomad’s kitchen burst with spices

She had finally found the home for her spirit

that she’d thought was long forgotten but

was with her even in the darkness of her past.

What you give up

It is far too easy to look towards one’s reflection
To pick apart the beauty; to give in to dereliction
The voices shriek in anger, “How dare you hold your dream!?”
While all along they’re hearing the same bitter peppered screams.
Up in Grandma’s attic filled with cobwebs and dust
Generations scorching them with, “You must, you must, you must.”
There is a wisdom holy that I must pass to you and give
There is truly only one life you have, one life for you to live.
When your eyes drop down with despair, the tears they freely flow
Remember in your heart and soul that you already know
That love is the only answer, that giving is its boon
Gyrate your hips to the music you hear, spiral the cycling moon.
Lift your maudlin mourning eyes for love isn’t found beneath
Don’t believe that you’re not worthy, heed not whispers from deceit.
There is no certain way to be, no cookie cutter being
Remove the power of the “You can’ts.” Remove the acidic peeling.
You are truly valuable, turn loose those inner fears
They’ve been inherited by people who wasted all their years.
Open up your heart to love with the jagged and glued pieces
Take in the deepest breath of peace know you’re perfect and release it.
Because NOBODY can ever know you, exactly as you are
with all your lumpy bumpy bits, your tatters, and your scars
Those are the imperfections that make you perfectly you
You are worthy, you are beautiful, I swear that this is true.

These Are My People: Anjana Love Dixon

Wild Woman Goddess

Wild Woman Goddess

I remember the day you were born in my heart.
I was ignorant that I would fall in love with you so completely.
I could never have guessed that the iridescence
You displayed would seep into my bones
Leaving me breathless with passion for life.
But there you were.
Clothing barely covering the privacy required
Golden skin flaring sunlight under the spotlight
Of the darkened room filled with soon to be worshipers
Your smile the Goddess’ blessing glimmering
Love on those who cat-called for your attention
As you walked, no, strutted into your skin
I witnessed something that makes me weep
Even now.
I watched you become;
as the fears, doubts, and self-deprecation
Fell to the catwalk in murky ribbons.
And there you were. All of you.
Without reasonable excuse or denial
You became an integral part of my personal journey
The personification of a Human Goddess
I remember the day you were born in my heart
It’s one of my favorite memories.

Retrieve the Wild Woman

A common missing soul link

“Once, when you thought no one was looking, I saw you open your heart so wide that the earth fell in. Once, when you thought no one was listening, I heard you sigh so deep that the oceans roared with support. Once, when you thought no one was around, every atom in this universe rushed forward to embrace you. Again. Thank you for existing so intensely.” –Sera Beak

When we are young girls, we’re told we can be anything or anyone we want to be. We’re encouraged to explore the world, to be inquisitive, to engage with wonder the nouns we’re exposed to every day. But then we hit the “tweens” the rules change dramatically. We’re told that we can no longer do this or we can’t do that. We’re chastised for being who we were told we could be, who we are. We’re told to keep our voices down, not only by the older women of our clans but by our peers and by society. We’re told that we are expected to dress this way or behave that way because after all, who wants a wild woman? Behave yourself, ladies. It’s about to get bumpy.

When we reach the age of dating, the rules shift again as we learn how to act around the alien species that we remember swimming with bare chested down at the swimming hole for endless summers past. But at this point, we’re expected to catch his attention with guile and grace that awkward teenagers don’t possess. We’re taught that by watching society, media, and our familial matriarchs we should already know these things. Even when we seek guidance from our peers, we’re mocked for not understanding how things work even though, sincerely, the other girls don’t know either.

We can no longer play in puddles even if it’s our deepest desire to do so because girls just don’t do that. We can’t strip off our shoes and socks and go wading into the murky depths squishing the untamed silt between our toes. We can’t jump into the gathered waters to cause a gratifying splash because that’s unladylike. We become tamed and complacent in our lives because that’s what we’re supposed to do. We’re coerced, instead, to step around the puddles and even to avoid them while looking regretfully at the unmarred reflection of what could be flying water.

Then the age of marriage, children, relationship issues, and responsibilities inundate our thoughts and who we were fades into a small bubble within our spirit that is nor more noticed than our own shadow. Meanwhile, our Wild Woman just floats along behind waiting, staring longingly at those mud puddles, swimming holes, and endless hours of laying in the grass staring at the clouds drifting by in the blue. It’s that Wild Woman, that didn’t have boundaries for exploration, inquiry, and engaging the world as our adult selves are required to have. It is the part of us that’s starving to be noticed, begging to be reintegrated into our daily lives.

I’m challenging you to jump in that mud puddle. I’m challenging you to make the ripples. I’m asking you to take the time to watch the skies. I’m asking you to be a rebel, a Wild Woman. I can hear the brakes in your mind going off. I can hear the thoughts of “But what will other people think?” Let me tell you why what “they” think doesn’t matter.

A study done by the National Science Foundation claims that people have on average 50, 000 plus thoughts a day. This means that even if someone thought about us ten times in one day, it’s only 0.02% of their overall daily thoughts. That’s a pretty powerful.

One way to understand this statistic is the more we think and worry about what other people think about us, the less time we have to think for ourselves, to follow our own path, to speak about what matters and is valued by our spirits. To embrace our inner Wild Woman as a place of solace and contentment, liberty and freedom of our wonderful souls is where personal contentment can be found. But that sounds pretty selfish and we’re supposed to be self-sacrificing, right?

Let’s approach it a different way. You love the color blue, but everyone else claims that they love the color green. When you can no longer pretend that you love the color green you tentatively reach out to those closest to you and you say, “I love the color blue more than green.” Some may reject you outright because that’s just not how it’s done; EVERY one MUST love green. But then, there may also be some of like mind that will say, “I too love blue.” And another creature may hover around your groups saying, “I don’t like either of those colors at all. I love yellow more than any other.”

Standing up for what you believe is right is not how a lady should behave, right? That’s not a Wild Woman practice, right? Oh, but it is. It’s saying that you’re not content with the way you or your fellow Wild Women are being treated. It’s standing up and saying, “I love blue, not green.” It’s demanding that your opinions, thoughts, and beliefs hold water like that splashy fun mud puddle. And you know what? You’ve jumped into the middle of that puddle by valuing your own opinion, by finding worth in what works for you. Pretty awesome, right?

Do you remember laying on your back in the green grass, staring up at the clouds as the sun warmed your skin? If you haven’t had the pleasure of this activity, I highly recommend it. And if you haven’t, imagine what it would feel like. The sounds of the breeze rolling through the trees as they wave at you with life flooding their branches. Inhale the scent of the earth and feel it filling your body until you’ll nearly burst. Can you hear the birds singing you a lullaby of complete contentment because they already know they’re birds? Can you see the clouds gliding the sky with their shifting watercolor painted beauty? Close your eyes and ingratiate yourself to the feeling of just being or keep staring up to the heavens filling your spirit with life.

So what do these simple activities have to do with retrieving your Wild Woman? How can these possibly make your life easier or happier?

When you allow yourself to embrace your own personal likes, dislikes, opinions, ideas, thoughts, you’re allowing yourself to tap into the Wild Woman soul. When you acknowledge to yourself, as used in the example, that you love the color blue more than green, you’re honoring yourself. You’re honoring the Wild Woman. The one your ancestral tribes glorified with natural movement dances around a fire while howling at the moon with the complete understanding that they were women and they had power.

When you jump into the puddle and publicly declare that you love blue more than you love green, you send a ripple of rebellion, a whisper of “What if…?” a passionate plea for others to embrace what and who they love as well. You’re giving permission, not only to yourself, but to other Wild Women hidden in the confines of “Don’t do that.” When you take off your shoes and socks and dip that toe back into the puddles of things that matter, you’re shaking off the oppressive ideals of who you are supposed to be and can then allow your heart to open so wide that the whole earth falls in.

When you take time to contemplate, feel, surround yourself with beauty, as in laying in the grass watching clouds, you’re cherishing the most valuable person you know, yourself. You’re giving yourself permission to rest. The dishes will be there when you get done. The bills will still be awaiting your check and stamp. But making time to just be who you are with no labels is becoming that Wild Woman that stands up in a banana skirt and declares she loves blue more than green. It entwines your passions and desires into a solid form that can be nibbled upon or swallowed whole. When you remember to make time your own, you become the ruler of your own oceans whether those oceans be blood, sweat, or tears; you matter.

The Universe is bidding you an invitation to glorify you in your natural state of being a Wild Woman. Be still and listen. Do you hear that in the wind? Do you see that in the sun or moon or stars or lake or leaves? It’s everywhere and it’s calling for you to be who you are. It’s beckoning for you to jump into those puddles, cause the ripples, stare at the sky and dream, because YOU are worth pulling in those gifts that float around you like confetti, bring them home, you Wild Woman you!

 

The statistic was found in an article found at: https://medium.com/life-hacking-2/46bf86584c95