Last night I researched how Shiva stopped Kali when she got lost in her killing spree. Evidently he lay down at her feet.

I was disappointed.

I am on a killing spree. The woman who towels off her sweetheart and washes him in the shower, cooks sensual meals, and spends most of her time in dresses, is wreaking hell. And it is not a contradiction.

In my last 20 years of working primarily with women, I’ve noticed that those of us of a fiery ilk, require a very strong masculine. These are the women I often hold down in my work, weighting myself into my pelvis, breathing deep into the “I’m right fucking here,” as they run a level of energy previously known to volcanoes. I’m creating a clearer, fuller container. It’s not a power play. I am not restricting them. I’m giving them permission to explode. The container is an invitation, a clear commitment to being present, a YES to them. “I am not afraid of you. Feel me. Let go into that power.”

I don’t need someone to give me their verbal YES. I need the fierceness of their presence. Their connection to their shadow. Their willingness to be afraid and keep going.

While waving my sword and baring my teeth, I can feel the social collective consciousness moving around me.

“Why are you being difficult?”
“You are going to frighten people.”
“That fierceness isn’t feminine.”
“That rawness isn’t feminine.”
“Hide the dirty.”
“Hide the ugly.”
“Hide.”

My blood, my fat, my excrement, my juices, my tenderness, my fear, my hair in inconvenient places make me a woman.

I still feel the people who have held their ground in the face of my fire. Rooting further into the earth. Gathering strength through my passion. The more I arrived, the more they arrived. The flavor of the passion didn’t matter. Sometimes it was rage. Sometimes it was joy. But it was always a rapturous burning. We found god in that fire. We knew ourselves. I felt invited.

Now I can’t accept anything less.