‘If women remember that once upon a time we sang with the tongues of seals and flew with the wings of swans, that we forged our own paths through the dark forest while creating a community of its many inhabitants, then we will rise up rooted, like trees. And if we rise up rooted, like trees … well then, women might indeed save not only ourselves, but the world.’
Sharon Blackie, If Women Rose Rooted
It’s getting dark. We are celebrating. It’s a birthday. But maybe we are also invoking our freedom to do this.
I joke with a neighbour who watches us disappear into the forest- “We can’t just leave it all to primitive man!” Those young men, teenagers, who light fires and drink beer without a by your leave. I’m not sure the neighbour understands my words, how strongly I feel about our right to be here.
Primitive man, the fire builders. The ones who can’t resist going a bit too far around it’s magical light. The ones whose presence in the wild places often leads to destruction, chaos, paramedics.
No. Tonight it’s all ours. All for the women, the baba yagas, the crones. The fire is ours. The forest is ours. We have not fully forgotten how we forged our own path. Tonight we are reminded again of that ancient rite. Gathering, celebrating, rising up rooted.