Permit me, those with raised brows who suck their teeth at recklessness, to invoke my inner temptress tonight. Just for the few hours between dusk and the Witching Hour, I will wear my gaudiest gown and be besieged by a wicked wanderlust so great my feet may never again find solid ground. I have taken up my roots, you see. This late Winter’s storm has spawned an unruliness in me that demands to be seen and heard; it has ripped through every responsibility and well-managed account, leaving naught more than a heap of shredded paper and burned-to-ash regrets.
This priestess has red lips and full hips. I am ancient glamour and cunning style. My bags are packed, and I have left no note behind. Now begins the long night of the wondrous wanderer, and I am letting no sense of cosmic destiny lead me. I have taken to the road with no grand plans and no metrics for success. I am without ambition. I am without a quantifiable measurement for an acceptable level of freedom. I am without any strategic magick. My Book of Shadows is collecting dust on my shelf, and I need no heavy, time-worn recipes for my Craft. I am a living love spell for the haunted woman. I am a moving benediction and a body-prayer whispered so quietly that only the darkest Goddess can hear the longing of my siren’s slow-beating heart-drum.
I am the Witch who wanders without being hunted, and my traveling clothes are made of sequined lace and crafted by Lucifer’s grey-winged handmaidens. I have left behind every name I have ever been called. I remember nothing, but they will remember me. From this hour forward until my soul moves to higher ground, I pledge my whole heart to the lustful dancers and the soulful lovers. My gaze will touch them like the great Mystery touches the hearts of the dying, and they will wed my wild and wanton spirit with only a momentary glance. They will bid me to consume them like the warm ether consumes us all after our final exhale, but my loyalties lie elsewhere.
In a whirl of red gauze and freckled skin, I will be gone, leaving a thick musk of vetiver oil and roses hanging a space left colder for having known my presence. I am the ghost of every great lover who died in a state of unrequited longing and impassioned anguish, now doomed to wander the rain-damp, fog-cloaked streets and enchant all who cross my path with a dark, empowered joy. I am subtle, erotic touch embodied, and I am the detested shadow of the too-bright, too-clean woman.
I have left my ordered life behind, just for these few hours, to satisfy a soul-deep yearning for placelessness and anonymity. Do not remind me of who I will be tomorrow. Tonight, I am a solitary orb of ruby light, and I will do as I please.
Danielle Dulsky is a long-time activist for wild woman spirituality and the divine feminine’s return. She is the author of Woman Most Wild (coming May 2017 from New World Library). A multi-media artist, yoga teacher and teacher trainer, and energy worker, Danielle is on a mission to inspire women to be fearless...