of my grand mothers.

madeleine. ursula. margarete. jeanne. simone. greta.

these are the names of my grandmothers, of my great grandmothers, of the women who have birthed the threads that weave the stories of my ancestry. i carry my foremothers with me; their essence a part of my own—of where i’m from, and who i am growing to be. as i work towards embodying my self, and towards healing my sexual self, i feel deeply in my bones that i am retracing these threads, gliding over the silkiest, stumbling over the coarsest. i visualize my grand mothers hunched over a loom, twining the yarns that make up the fabric of their lives, braiding moments of deep shadow, moments of warmth, moments of affection, moments of hearty bliss. i think about the women whose very breath has created a rich ancestral tapestry, one in which every stitch carries an ancient truth, a whispered secret. these truths, these secrets, are murmurings of age-old woundings. they tell of disembodiment, of disempowerment, of violence that snakes and lives within the body. together, they call for the healing of mothers past. these truths, these secrets, are reclamations of power; a demand to be voiced and to thrive in this embodying. these are the whisperings that have been tucked within the lips of my mothers, sealed, never released, imbibing themselves into the very essence of what it means to be woman. to experience woman. to come into being, to breathe, and to lay down one’s life as woman.

i’ve tumbled earthside into a legacy that i am only now coming to understand, after what feels like years of disentangling the karmic knots that have made up the fabric of my own life. it wasn’t until one late night, as the new moon rose into full-hearted cancer, its home—zodiac sign of family, hearth, nurturing—that i was initiated into the world of ancestral workings. under the energies of the moon, and that of the total solar eclipse that cocooned it, i unwittingly came across two ancestral tokens i had once tucked away: jeanne’s rosary, of which dark wooden beads, well-worn from devotion, laid weightily in my palm, and the delicate golden chain of margarete, a talisman of sorts, passed down through the generations to those in need of divine protection. as i pried them out of hibernation, it felt as if all the energies they carried had been freed into an ethereal swoosh, rippling its way into the dark corners of my apartment. heart pounding, hairs rising, i stood in deafening silence, aware i had called upon an entity from beyond the veil. it was a matter of days before i understood that my great grandmother, margarete, had made a grand appearance, wading the rooms of my home with her sturdy presence.

this ancestral connection, one i poured myself into, hurled the door to ancestral healing, and its power, wide open. it was in the thick of these twilight gatherings, and more often than not, early-morning chattering—pendulum, tarot, and coffee in hand—that the stirrings of a spiritual awakening took place. many moons have waxed and waned since margarete swooped in, and many moons have borne witness to the gaggle of foremothers coming forth into my life hereafter, bull-headed, intimidating, and absolutely endearing. these ethereal women, and the steely yet fiercely loving energies they embody, serve as watchtowers to my healing. these connections, and the moments born in their nurturing, underpin my sexual healing, a journey i have stumbled into unwittingly. it is a journey that, in its raw and at times violent revelations, creates space for my voice, and those of mothers past, to be embraced. it is a journey in which ancestral karma, inherited traumas, are shaken loose with the unthreading of every stitch.

by choosing embodiment, by choosing the healing of my sacred feminine, i am taking my own place at the loom, weaving my strength, and that of my grand mothers, into what it means for me to be woman. the fabric of my tapestry spins a tale of solid foremothers, women who have spent their lives reciting stories, loving deeply, and tending to the hearth fires that unite their families. it spins a tale of sorrow, of betrayal, and of anger, but it also holds the murmur of rebirth, of reclamation, and of startling power. it is a collage of tender moments between sisters, of knowing looks, of intertwining fingers, and of the fierce whispering of aching conjurations. it is a mosaic that chronicles the experiences of women, and the goddesses of whom we are conceived and divinely inspired. my sexual healing, their sexual healing, is our story, our strength, our demand to be honoured. let the goddesses of the night, let our ancestral power, act as beacons of reconciliation for the sexual ferocity that is brewing from deep within our bodies.

queen of night

hear our wicked command

for honour.

it echoes

in the slithering drops

spicy

bitter

and thick

slow to leave the lips

from which

life tumbles earth-side

bloody

and slick.

souls are brought forth

resurrected

from the ether

From lips

of which

ancient truths

and whispering secrets

are mutilated

and stitched.

so mote it be.