My Red Tent

In another time I would have known that I am sacred. I would have known that I am at my most powerful when I bleed. I would have known because my mother would have told me. As her mother had told her. As her mother had told her.

We would have gathered together at our moon time, away from the world, to rest and dream. We would have been respected. We would have been revered.

Instead I have denied what I am for most of my life. A woman. A giver of life. I have complained at the inconvenience. I have masked the pain. I have hated my body. I have hidden the proof.

It is only now, as I near my Crone years, that I honour what I once called a curse. In my Red Tent I honour this gift with ritual baths, nourishing food, dark chocolate and tea. I cry for what I must leave behind and I cry for what I am about to receive. I spend time in introspective solitude. I meet with the Mother in her church. I create. I dream. I intuit and I prophecise. I give my blood back to the Earth.

I experience a rebirth once again.

I am a ceremony within myself.

As are all women.

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