“Women are rising.
Wild, windswept, born of ocean, aflame with light,
rooted as trees, we are rising.
We are re-wilding ourselves.
Emerging from Earth, clad in moss and bark. We are unrecognizable, except to each other. We move in the shadows of forests and the deep, cool undercurrents of streams. We reach out our arms to the mountains. Dare to stand, cracked and dry and dust-whorled like deserts. We green ourselves with grasses, root ourselves in moist soil.
We are wondrous. We are rising. We are wild.
We see each other, feel for each other, hold each other up. Like waves in an ocean we are a celebration of nature’s powers and impulses. We ebb and flow according to our own rhythm. We will not be dictated to.
A woman no longer separate from the flesh of Earth, becomes her, speaks for her, lifts her throat and sings of fire below and stars in her hair. We are granite and grandeur, full-fleshed and woven through with wildflowers. We bloom according to our own ways and whims and wants. False things fall down in our presence. We are pregnant with new birth.
A wild soul woman is a woman of belly and breath and boundlessness. She makes her own way through ancient lands. With soft footsteps, lays down fresh tracks. Barriers break apart before her. Instinctively she moves, on fin and wing and prayer. She listens to the wisdom of stone.
She is the echo of a deeper voice that speaks from the fiery cave. She is molten, flowing, shape-shifter.
She is living proof of a language that banishes all sense of loneliness. The Earth warms her, welcomes her, enfolds her. She grows tall amid the fields, greets the wind and the grasses, the soft grace of rainbows. She is fire woman and rain woman and earth and air, with plenty to spare.
We are wondrous. We are rising. We are wild.”
Mary Reynolds Thompson