“On approach of a woman in this state, must will become sour, seeds which are touched by her become sterile, grass withers away, garden plants are parched up, and the fruit will fall from the tree beneath which she sits.” -Pliny, 636 A.D.
I remember my first, and I will one day have a last. I was born of Blood, through my Mother. I, too, bore a daughter who will Bleed. I grew up in a house of women. We all bled together, synched with the power of our pheromones. The senses of my Body, the impressions of my Spirit, the memories of my Mind…all tied together in this messy bundle. It is only now I am remembering this Power in my Blood, as it seems all women are beginning to again. I avoided it, hid it, was ashamed of it. I was of no use to men as they wouldn’t want sex from me while it was there. Orgasms bring it on sometimes. The ecstatic contractions release an avalanche of Death, mucus membranes and flushed memories. I always had a fear of accidentally starting the flow during a long cunnilingus session…giving an unsuspecting man his first facial ‘red wings’ with a sudden thrust of my pelvis. The first cramping, a small storm churning in that purpled and reddened muscle. A reminder of our mammalian existence. The breasts of Men do not feed. Milk and Blood are subtle in their power.
I have special underthings for this sacred time. Shoving a wad of cotton or a sea sponge into that slippery cave, a pastel silicon cup around my delicate cervix, or maybe a semi-diaper attached to ugly underwear: these are my options every month. The medicine, the chocolate, the brewed drink. My aching sacral solution sloshing around in there, while my uterus contracts and constraints to empty the bloat. Restless sleep accompanying surges of heat from the sudden increase of hormones, and somehow I still get up early for work. Concealer and foundation creates an illusion of normalcy, powered by coffee and bananas.
My magick is, and always has been, experiential. The magick of menstrual blood is old. I collected it as a young witch, exploring primal magicks. I offered it in a cup of wine to a lover and he drank it down. I anointed a special candle with it, manifesting money. I synched up with the full moon, bringing high tides of crimson creativity. I painted my body with the Blood, anointing forehead and heart with sticky sanguine holiness. I manifest over and over, every 28 days, every lunar cycle. This is not ‘dead blood’, some miasmic fluid of destruction…quite the contrary. It is the essence of life, the blood shedding stem cells and karmic burden. The great wake takes out all residuals, resins and debris from the month before.
Photo attributed to the author.
Now that I am Mother, the Blood is different. There is no reprieve except in magicks. Time on the cushion, drinking pennyroyal tea in contemplative meditation gives much needed peace deserving a Priestess of the Blood. I divine with it, bleeding on clean paper, reminiscent of cedar on snow. The images speak from that base chakra, the muladhara: red, four petaled flower of fire. This roots my Womb to the foundations of magick.
I believe it was the envy of Men which caused this hatred of our Blood magicks, specifically taking a passive role during the creation of Life. They seek out the Blood in war, in pain, in Death because They cannot produce it Themselves. Women bring it. And so the Patriarchy, with that capital “P”, crawled out of the primordial mud fueled by anger and jealousy. Men fear the Blood which comes freely. So instead They create Death to pacify their lust. They harvest from Women, from the Earth, from culture and leave nothing in return.
Women must all continue to Bleed, in defiance of Men’s cowardice. We face it over and over, month after month. As They turn noses away, let Us flow freely out and about. Return to the Red Tent. Recapture the currents of Our Sorority of Bleeders, long forgotten…the one replaced with bitterness and jealousy. We are pitted against one another, conditioned to tear each other down. I say instead, hold each other up in rebellion, Sisters of the crotch cloth! Those of Us who Bleed are tired of fighting. We refuse to dam up Our streams, the course of Inspiration.
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“On approach of a woman in this state, must will become sour, seeds which are touched by her become sterile, grass withers away, garden plants are parched up, and the fruit will fall from the tree beneath which she sits.” -Pliny, 636 A.D. I remember my first, and I will one day have a last. […] -
“On approach of a woman in this state, must will become sour, seeds which are touched by her become sterile, grass withers away, garden plants are parched up, and the fruit will fall from the tree beneath which she sits.” -Pliny, 636 A.D. I remember my first, and I will one day have a last. […]
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