Oh Woman, Sound the drum with me
And expand into your abundance
Oh Woman, Stand in the beauty of your creative soul
You are pure love
“We must begin to decide how, using our own unique gifts, we can work to restore the fertile feminine principle to the world, to reclaim our lost power, and so take responsibility for the healing of the Wasteland. To speak for the earth itself.” (Sharon Blackie If Women Rose Rooted).
Oh Women, I tell you: we were the drummers.
We had the gifts of manifestation and transformation.
Humans formed inside our bellies.
Our vulvas, our wombs, were the caves of creation.
Our menstrual blood – the stickiness of mud and earth and bog
Milk poured from our bountiful breasts
Our synchronization with the moon was uncanny,
And time flowed in a circular fashion, non-linear
Women, We were connected with the earth
Physically, viscerally, emotionally, mentally, spiritually
These gifts were relentlessly smothered by a new order,
A different way of thinking.
For the past two thousand years, it was as if women had never had a voice.
We were muzzled, dominated, covered up, and expropriated for personal gain
Of men by men for men
How could we know our power?
Any trace, any glimmer, of strength caused alarm.
Even excess kindness was suspiciously viewed
Rise up, empowered,
Not against our men, but with them, side by side,
As Shakti and Shiva, yin and yang, moon and sun
Masculine and feminine energies are both required for creation of life
There is not one without the other.
We are needed now – the earth speaks to us directly.
Ask the wind, the trees, the animals, the sky to share their vision.
Say to them: “I am ready to receive”, and believe in your heart that you truly are.
Open your arms widely, and let their energies pour into you,
Filling you with knowledge and abundance.
We have learned to close our ears so as not to hear, and
Bow our heads so we cannot see.
Cover ourselves so we cannot feel.
Search inside your heart for your greatest joys:
There is your path.
At first, each glimpse is like a tiny drop of precious nectar.
You can barely taste it.
We tend the droplets with love and kindness,
and they grow into small faery-sized pools
Eventually deepening, they spring forth, uncontained
and we harness them with our ever-expanding sagacity.
One snowy winter day many years ago
I asked the Turtle rock in our woods for a message,
something to give me strength.
I felt shy to do this, and even a bit silly, so
I cannot tell you how startled I was to hear the rock tell me clearly
what sounded like: “Quandero”
I hastened home to research what this could possibly mean.
The closest definition I could find was: “when I was”.
Puzzled, but grateful, I shrugged and kept it close.
Weeks ago, in my reading,
I read a poem about a “curandero”,
a wise woman, a community healer, a shaman.
How fitting that years of practice and study have brought me to a place
Where I seek and receive wisdom from rocks and trees,
And they tell me clearly to stand in my power, with them.
I look around me at my community,
And see that we have claimed our gifts and strengths –
Each and every one of us Curandero
All of us holding hands at our roots like the trees do
Our power is our connection to all that is and each other.
If Women Rose Rooted Sharon Blackie
When the Drummers were Women Layne Redmond
The Power of Intention Wayne Dyer
Sanskrit study with Lucy Crisfield