There is a deep hunger rumbling in the blackened hollows of women.
A drowsy awareness of how little they offer themselves still. How rarely they actually allow their bellies to be truly filled with all of the beauty and grace of who they are.
This hunger persists because of the surface-scratching ideas we uphold around what it means to feed ourselves well. Insistent yearnings shout of a deficiency that looms: our connection to nature, to the divine, to our own soul-centered lives.
What is the essence of woman in you? Where does her instinctual nature live? What does it look like to wear her, to let the empress of her lead you?
When we go for our own jugular, when we search the dark and juicy places in our underworld psyche, when we are available to do the dirty work of what keeps us tethered and stuck in life, we may find the best of a life we have not lived.