Tired Goddess, Let Down Your Hair.
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Tired Goddess. Hair full of starlight pouring from every inch, now worn back tight. Lips once smothered with chocolate pudding, meant to be eaten. Now quietly nibbling on the lifeless and fat-free.
It is time to get down on your hands and knees and worship this body.
They tell you this reverence is only for washing the kitchen floor, and you’ve believed them. You used your fingers for detailing pretty things, sewing buttons, tidying. Putting fingers to your own lips, you shushed yourself when you knew what you would say would create a holy mess. But make it. Smash it. Break all of the little glass trinkets of appropriate behavior you keep lying around the house for company, and dance over the shards.
Take all of the things you said you would do, and burn them down with the hissing shoulds of yesterday.
Stop reaching for another goddess card, another piece of holy scripture, something to make sense of your sacred chaos. Reach for your goddess skin that has been hungry for you, waiting like a lover who still hungers for you after all these years.
The multicolored scarf on your altar is not meant for decoration. It is not meant to make your altar resemble some article you read in Spiritual Upkeep. The scarf on your altar is meant to be dragged down slowly onto your bare skin, teasing every inch that has been aching for your divine presence.
When is the last time you knew that your ecstatic deep breaths ignite the very fire in your soul? That your own deepest pleasure is saving your life? The night you made love in the woods with the fireflies, a holy shroud around you both, you could not get enough, and you would beg for more. There was no guilt. There was no pain. There was no pretending that your deep satisfaction distracted you from the divine light of your own being.
Your skin and the moonlight were one, and you delighted in this union.
Growing up meant you ran from the woods pulling the leaves from under your bra, trying to shake off the feeling of want, vowing to cut your hair. To never go back to such a senseless joy that no one important could ever approve of.
But now, in this ecstatic heat that is growing and moving to all the parts of you that you tried to forget, let it move. Let it dance up your thighs, around your sacred opening, to your heart, to your breasts. Yes, right here. Right at your altar.
They tried to damn you. Say your mind-blowing pleasure and hunger was sin, evil, how dare you be so heart-achingly beautiful? They tried to rob you of the innocence of your own body that just wants what it wants without apology. Wants to give in, let yourself go weak in the knees, and fall in love with this delicate art of being. This heart that is ravenous for all things whole.
The heart that is not in a dead machine, but beats wanting to eat pudding with her fingers, wanting to never ask for permission to linger. You forgot you like breath on the inside of your wrist, and you forgot that you liked to be touched just like this.
Hot burning tears of anger will come wondering how you could have kept yourself away so long from your own sacred river that quenches your thirst like no one else. Let the tears come, but do not punish yourself from your pleasure and try to pretend that you are spiritual. Taste the soul of your being with your own tongue. Letting go all of the lies that it is dirty, pornographic, that your sensual body is meant to be ignored to make it righteous.
You are not a saint. You are not an angel. You are a dirty goddess with years of pain and joy and laughter that shine in the cracks of your skin. With hair that can still blow in the wind and feel like wings when you let it fall against you. You are a bearer of fire that burns in your heart, in your belly, right between your thighs, this fire that has no time for any untruth. Let the candles burn as you remember the way back to your own delicious softness.
And the voices will come, and you will let them go. The old voices afraid of what your pleasure means for them, wanting to rip your lightning away and lock it in a jar to be put up on the shelf of a well-kept home. When you start to feel self-conscious, how dare you feel this as if they are here right now, spitting towards your nakedness, look twice. The body sitting across from you watching you, delighting in the deep moans from a woman waking up, is the Divine Herself.
She wants nothing else than for you to come home to your body and to fall asleep in this bliss. You have found the ever-growing ever-moving ever-shaking well of your own joy, and you will never go thirsty again.
Here’s to drinking it in deep, to letting the rest just fall at your feet. May you always awaken the fire in your bones and use your torch to guide you home.
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Maria Palumbo is a healer. She is a dancer in the dark. She lovingly guides women in the retrieval of their own souls through coaching, workshops, and community development. She celebrates freedom from shame in body, mind, and soul. Her work is fun and delicious, making the journey of healing gorgeous and satisfying, like a kiss under the Full Moon. Fall in deep love with your soul by connecting with her on Facebook or at her website.
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