I searched for the perfect metaphor for a need. I had poems for the shedding- snake imagery and moon tides pulling my moods and body; out of control & all about surrender. The month is a dizzying ride for me and mine. The mellow mama snaps like a crocodile. The confident punk-hippy shrivels before the mirror. The body wants out somehow; nerves revolt.
I need drugs, I need heating pads and water by the gallon and a place to write-vent-cry.
I didn't know I needed a history, and a safe place woven in the fabric of time and a solid, shared visual until I read The Red Tent. My sisters all over adopted its title seamlessly. We all know the story, the gathering, the cocoon of fabric that rocks us. We know the feeling of being apart, scared AND sacred. Of being in a cyclic, circular time with each other.
The nights when I've taken the herbs and the medicines and still have to repeat mantras and stories in my head to fall asleep, I place myself there, under blankets my tribe wove. I imagine myself to quiet, warm, woman magic. The Red Tent is relief, and when I speak it, my husbands' patient face relaxes. Soon the wailing not-me thing will leave me and I'll be tender and tired but calm.
I'm bleeding now, and my mind is reeling with excitement. The art I make this week will be filled with moony energy and fresh as home-baked bread when I pack it up and sell it at The Red Tent Mother's Day Event. The pain and sweetness of this day usually stuns me, stuck between Daughter-Lost and Mother-Found. This year, I'll be with sister souls, who catch wet babies in warm tubs of water, who sew soft fabric into dresses, and draw ancient patterns on skin.
I feel blessed, witchy, and beautiful. I feel very, very full of myself. Please come and have a warm, wild spa day for your soul.