Rite Of The Dead Biker’s Daughter: Remembrance Magick For The Outlaw.
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The daughters of villainous men hold a special place in this alchemical world of ours.
We know that bad boys are really wounded wizards struggling to make a dysfunctional system disappear with a wave of their wands, but this magick is often born of anger, and ill-received by those who love them.
In their wake, these troublemakers leave those who trusted them feeling foolish, fragile, and yet strangely reverent of these outlaws who rode in and out of their lives with neither mufflers nor apologies.
The daughters of the deviant grow to be hardened priestesses who wield their fearlessness in much the same way as the miscreants who tried to raise them.
We are foul-mouthed, bitter, and hateful of those who would discount our bloodline. We wear black, and easily build thick walls around our broken hearts.
Religiously we protect ourselves from those who might trigger a longing for that odd balance between protection and rejection; succumb to it, we might, and then we are the little girls again who both hate and love the guns hanging on our living room walls.
But a shift happens when these rebel-fathers die, and their daughter-witches know that these men are owed a great credit.
Nothing is feared more in this world than a woman who knows her worth, and the daughters of the deviant come to understand a profound truth after the death of the patriarch; radical rebellion need not be tied to punishment.
Moreover, to buck convention is to drive social change.
To wield embodied intelligence and fierce sensuality is to swing a wrecking ball at the same longstanding structures that our fathers sought to condemn, so we swing with all the power we have.
My father got away with a lot, crafty devil he was, but I will get away with more. I will be what they tell me not to be, and I will not fear any punitive system that would constrain any part of my soul, mind, or body.
You see, I too am a rebel and a troublemaker. I never carried a blade in my boot, but I wield a writer’s arsenal. I am my father’s daughter, and I have mischief in my blood.
Father, we did not share the same wounds, but our reactions to powerlessness are the same. I was never forced to kill in a foreign war as you were, but I harbor the womb-betrayal that all women do.
Quintessential man’s wounds had you, but these do not trump the collective feminine scars throbbing at my heart-center.
It is out of a bone-rattling anger that I reject and seek to dismantle the same power-systems that strapped a helmet on your 18-year-old head.
You know I held boiling disdain for your prejudice and politics, but the greatest lesson I have learned in this life was taught by you: There is magick in the outlaw’s nature, and the alchemist never conforms.
Nearly nine years it has been since the Morrigan came to claim your soul from the battlefield, but I, your daughter, will perform this Sacred Rite in remembrance of your fearlessness, your sin, and your sheer deviance.
Today, on your birthday, I will drink Jack Daniels, and pour one out for you, Daddy. I will light my skull candles, and blast Steve Earle.
I will weep not for your absence but to honor your legend, and I will slur stories of my outlaw-patriarch to anyone who will listen. I will eat the forbidden fruit, and tell someone to fuck off, and I will leave my rules at home.
You, Ghost Rider, were my first rebel role model, and while I certainly have as many wounds as I do gifts sourced directly from you, today I bow to my first king.
From you, I learned that there was nothing to be won by being the good girl, and your approval was bestowed rarely and only when I did something shockingly unpredictable.
This princess was no princess, and you wanted it just that way. You knew to leave me alone when I was talking to the moon, and I knew that if all else failed, we would go for a motorcycle ride on Sunday morning.
When I talk to you now, your energy is distant, and I am no longer sure you can hear me. Certain am I that you’ve whipped all the angels into shape and taught the Ascended Masters to ride Harleys.
When you come back, Ghost Rider, I beg you to come back as a woman born to a rebel patriarch. Choose a father who will tell you to get tattoos and teach you that your worth has nothing to do with the size of your bank account.
Be born into a house with few rules, where any man who comes to claim you is looked upon with a fierce, furrow-browed disdain until he proves his respect.
Father, come back as a woman and be raised by an outlaw, then you will truly know me.
Today, I perform the Rite of the Dead Biker’s Daughter. My skull candles are lit, and the whiskey is poured. I will not mourn for you, for that time has passed, but I will do you one better.
I will raise my glass to you for gifting me with an unapologetic independence and fierce soul-born ambition. When I designed this life of mine in the ethereal place where you now reside, I am certain you were integral to its foundation.
There are a great many things I could berate you for, but I called your attention to those wrongs when you were still living. Father, I am vindicated, and it is your praises I now sing so unharmoniously.
You forgive my angry feminism, and I’ll forgive your misogynistic narcissism. Just for today, we are without any labels that are not father and daughter.
So, here’s to you, the Outlaw who raised me: May you ride recklessly on roads made of moonlight.
May you drink shots of star-stuff with the other fallen angels, and may you keep breaking any rules that would contain your expansive spirit; I will do the same, as you raised me well.
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Danielle Dulsky is a multi-passionate entrepreneur, energy-healer, Yoga teacher, multi-media artist, and magickal mentor. She holds the highest designation from Yoga Alliance as an E-RYT500, and is on a mission to inspire women to be fearless creators of their sacred work. She is the founder and creatrix of the Living Mandala Yoga teacher training programs, a Reiki Master in the Usui-Tibetan tradition, and long-time believer in Earth-based traditions. Her work is based on sensing and transforming energetic vibrations, empowering individuals to discover their potential for authentic abundance, using artistic practice intuitively, and holding space for women to unearth their inner goddess through the magick of sisterhood. Danielle leads women circles, witchcraft workshops, a teaching coven, and psychic development intensives in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania where she lives with her partner Ryan, sons Bodhi and Sage, and pet-familiars Jeepster and Raven. She believes that all women alive today are meant to be instrumental in supporting the return of the Divine Feminine. You could contact her via email.
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