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Red-Hot Holy F*cking Rage

Red-Hot Holy F*cking Rage Running Through Our Veins.

Red-hot holy f*cking rage running through my veins, seething from my pores and leeching out from deep inside my bones.

Ancient holy f*cking rage I’d carried for my ancestors, carried for my sisters, and now carry for the inner child peering out my eye sockets at the sh*t storm of a world we’ve created for ourselves.

What spark lit this torch of rage inside of me?

Before my first cup of coffee, I read headlines of war, destruction, and violence; viewed images of horror, families and animals displaced by natural disasters and saw photos of our earth torched, leveled, and raped. Then, as I turned on the news, interviews with elated reporters- their shiny faces frozen in smiles- filled my ears as they displayed live footage of awe-inspiring terror.

If I were speaking, right now is when I’d let the mic go silent long enough to make the audience squirm.

Red hot holy rage twisted up my spine like slithering snakes log-jamming my throat as I wanted to scream for all of my sisters, scream for all of my brothers, and scream for our children who stand to inherit this mess.

But rage didn’t stop there. Once unleashed, my rage turned towards politicians dropping the bar so far down that we’ve become embarrassed to let our children watch the news, live streams filled with hatred and blows so low, you could sweep the dirty floors into their slack-jawed faces at the end of the night.

Yes, rage was running through me and it’s running through you. You may hide it somewhere deep inside trying your best to keep it at a low simmer as you go about your daily life, but it releases in traffic and snaps its mouth open at the slightest hint of what might be an insult or an insinuation from someone you work or sleep with.

Your rage might be out of sight and in denial, but it’s right there below your skin, pulsing at the surface ready to burst at the next perceived slight this world delivers.

You see, your rage is holy and your rage is righteous. Rage is only wrong when stuffed and projected upon the innocents who happen to walk into your trap of I’m not angry martyrdom.

Religion teaches that anger is bad and New-Age spiritualism teaches that anger’s a low vibrational emotion that thwarts any hope of manifesting our latest affirmation. But anger is holy my dear. She’s the hot red blood that must escape in order for a festering wound to heal.

As the moon rose, I said a silent prayer to let go of what had been stopping me in life. My ego felt pacified as I thought spending a quiet evening at home rearranging furniture, cleaning out drawers, and taking care of tasks would set the stage for this new moon transformation I naively craved.

Instead, that cold bitch moon, much like a loving grandmother passing the spoon of bitter medicine, handed me a Pandora’s box of ancient rage hiding inside my belly. An ancient rage, which had been silently simmering for centuries inside my ancestors, awaited its escape from my DNA.

My prayers for freedom were answered by a cold wind raking me clean from the inside, scraping my ribs raw, and making me honest with myself. It took my breath away as my vision and ability to reason escaped out the back door with my denial.

The anger inside of me had no face to rest upon – I had long ago spent time forgiving those who had trespassed against me.

There was no situation in which to sit my anger down for a while – life had been peaceful for me.

This rage was beyond labels and beyond explanation. This rage was so white-hot glowing that to try to contain it would have burned my bones to ashes before I could pull out a journal to fake my way through understanding it.

This rage wanted to run free like the wind my prayers for transformation had traveled upon before landing on the ears of the Divine.

Trying to move the energy through my normal routes was futile. This rage demanded respect. This rage demanded nature. This rage demanded 100% of my attention, not some pacified attempt to once again contain it in the neat package society dictates we must in order to be happy functioning adults.

I sat on the earth in my skirt with my core pressed against her. I wanted to feel the primal pulse of the earth against my sit bones and feel the radiant hot sun penetrate my bare face. I wanted to feel her stones in my hands, hear the birds above me, and disconnect from the superficial daily world. I needed to escape from the manufactured world that tells me it’s not healthy to let the sun hit my face, to let the bacteria of the soil enter my body or proper for a woman to sit bare-assed against the earth panting with rage, breathless with chest pains as silent screams rolled liquid down her face.

And then, in far less time than my dramatic ego would have expected once my mind got its clutches on what was happening, the rage melted into the earth. The rage that had demanded 100% of my attention, blocking out reason like clouds on a bright white sunny day, slipped away as quickly as it had arisen.

And peace arrived.

As I reflected upon the festering wound my anger had bled clean, there was a sweet pink innocence left in its place. An innocence we all get to miraculously reclaim each time we have the courage to let our rage seep out.

We have tried our best to put on happy faces, go about our business and live our lives as happy responsible tidy adults. But rage festers below the surface when it has no healthy outlet.
It appears as middle-aged women turning bitter, belly fat that won’t go away, and cancers that eat us from the inside.

Only when we can authentically claim our rage, feel it and let it pass through us do we really step into the light and power of who we truly are- open-hearted, loving, happy women.

Hiding rage because it’s messy is a lie.

If we’re going to be honest and authentic, we have to get in touch with the rage that resides inside the belly of all of us.

The awakening of the Divine Feminine, the truly loving, powerful, peaceful, all-encompassing Divine Feminine requires a clear belly for the Divine to reside in.

You have the courage to reclaim this.


photo credit: 164/365 After the Storm (+1) via photopin (license)

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