The Story of Mis

I've been thinking this last week about the Irish tale of Mis. Her father was murdered and she went mad with grief, flew away and became a creature of the wild. She grew feathers and dreadlocks and hunted for food with her sharp talons.

The story goes that she could not be tempted to rejoin humankind with money nor food but by seeing the manhood of the gentle harper Dubh Ruis. He was so kind to her and every time they made love she became more and more human, less a wild creature. Eventually she felt ready to go with him back to society.

This aspect of the wild feminine is very dear to my heart. I see in Mis the post-traumatic stress I have experienced myself, the reduction to purely animal instincts for survival. As Dubh Ruis tempted her closer and closer with the promise of love I see the whites of her eyes, the way she would have her escape route planned out should it all go wrong. I see also the way that loving touch and connection is the best way to heal the wounds of the past. How patience and a pure heart wins the day.

I like to think she still stayed a bit wild. Maybe she kept a few feathers, or dreadlocks. Maybe she never got used to wearing shoes. Maybe she would go and howl at the full moon when everybody else was sleeping. Trauma changes you forever, and sometimes those changes are a gift, too.

Amazing dress by @mystonecircle

Stunning photography credit @_lifewithmelly_

Cancer Full Moon

The cancer full moon

Was one of endless tears

As I gave birth to myself again.

An agonising leaping from the ovary

Of Moon Mother.

When the breath comes quick and the

Extremities are cold

My heart pounds and my third eye throbs

When I wonder if I will ever be "well"

In the way that the patriarchy wants me to be

Numb to my womanhood

In the way that I remember before my thermostat

For emotion broke free

Of the factory default settings they put in me

Once and for all.

Something that is so precious to me-

There is a man who can weather storms

And can steer a ship,

Finally.

I spin and dance through the agony of my soul work

And I wonder again if I am too much, if I've crossed the line somehow and I just know

I was killed for something like this

Hundreds of years ago.

- Jenny Wren

My Ritual Bath

When I have finished my bleed
I have a ritual bath
Tonight was the night.
As the kitchen sat full of dishes,
My daughter sat on my lap coughing
Playing with my necklaces
Threatening to flick me
I felt irritation rise like a flame in my throat.

She coughed and her eyes began to close
Something in her wanted to be close.
I've packed up her night-time nappies and last year
Weaned her from the breast
This was my first Christmas in so long
Without a baby wanting me and only me.

This is my ritual bath
After she coughed so hard she threw up all over us
And I praised her as my hand filled up with vomit.
She protested there was not any on her sock
As I tried to undress us both
There was.
I bribed her with my last bath bomb
To come in the bath with me.

So now we sit in a pink paradise
Eye to eye
Smelling each other's feet and telling each other
We smell of roses.
I fondly wash the leg that used to kick me inside
And now kicks me outside
In four year old exuberance.

We made the house a sacred space
With a spray of ylang ylang and bergamot
She chose and insisted on using
For the cleanup.
(The former her favourite
Since she used to call it "orangutan")
It wasn't goddess chants and mood lighting
But it was real
And I live for these moments
Where motherhood and spirituality
Intertwine.

- Jenny Wren