It all happened so suddenly
A windstorm of magic
That threw open the doors and windows to my world
I had never seen the sun shine so brightly
Or the moon beam on me so lovingly
Even the rain I adore tasted sweeter
Now, in its wake, fallen leaves that crunch beneath my feet
Tiny twinkles of light that dance on drying puddles
A dying wind
And I wonder…where did my magic go

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.


I’ve never wanted easy. In my life or in my men. I’ve never wanted worship or fawning. Gifts? How trite.

I prefer questions and conversations.

Heartfelt words written and delivered during the dead of night.

Capture my image. Show me what you see.

Sing to me.

And if all these fail you, speak to me in body language.