La Loba (Wolf Woman), the old one, the One Who Knows, is within us. She thrives in the deepest soul-psyche of women, the ancient and vital Wild Woman. She describes her home as that place in time where the spirit of women and the spirit of wolf meet —the place where her mind and her instincts mingle, where a woman’s deep life funds her mundane life. It is the point where the I and the Thou kiss, the place where women run with the wolves.
You can dent the soul and bend it. You can hurt it and scar it. You can leave the marks of illness upon it, and the scorch marks of fear. But it does not die, for it is protected by La Loba in the underworld. She is both the finder and the incubator of the bones.
Clarissa Pinkola Estés
Lost instincts. I don’t know when I lost mine but they had been buried for so long. I had given over my life, thoughts, needs, and dreams to others becoming complacent with how things were in my life. I feared speaking out saying this is what I want. I let others offend me and I took it with a smile and a nod. Outside looking unfazed, but inside crying and hurting, but speak out and sing my song, forbid, I show this side of me.
I wrote, but hid my work. I drew, but showed it to no one. I had opinions, but didn’t share them. I had needs, but did not let them be known. I had ideas, but did not play upon them. If someone said I couldn’t, I didn’t. If another said you’re too old I agreed. If one said, woman aren’t supposed to do that, I said, You’re right.
Though I was the woman with no voice I still healed many hurts myself, all quietly inside me having to create this space for my own survival. But the hurts that slowed me as a woman, well I did not know how to heal them.
I wrote my stories always in the third person telling of passed hurts and healing, of fun childhood’s I never had, of a woman with visions I feared to see.
I needed a pack. I needed woman. I was at an age when I needed to let go, and be free, but still, because of lost instincts, I did not realize this was what I was seeking, but I did know I needed to Sing My Songs of my life. I had the medicine magic to find my instincts but didn’t know how to use it.
I found a pack, wild women, hair flying, breast bouncing, faces creasing, eyes snapping, wild women wolves, we gathered and circled, snarled and licked, howled and whimpered, and in time, my song came more forwards in my soul. Until one day, one day most unexpectedly it burst forth, and everyone stopped and listened and my hurts finally became important to someone other than myself, through my stories other women came before the fire and said to me , "me too, it happened to me too." Sing louder, for there are others who need to hear that song. And I did, and I entrusted my pack with my inter-most secrets and instead of applause at the end of my song they validated me. My words became important, and understood. My tears got to mingle with others. My Singing became a story of importance, as each woman who has sung her song since.
I no longer am afraid to stand up for what I believe, even if it is not popular. I have more energy than I did 8 years ago. I have learned I am important. I have something to say. I no longer fear the sound of my voice. I am no longer the woman with no voice.
The BSE was about a , "systematic removal" , of babies and the , "number of babies" , through horrific means.
Clearly, post-BSE does not parallel the BSE's , "organized routine"., Post-BSE's distinction is in the industry's revised approach to achieve "the same goal" by less obvious means.
I don't know why it is so hard to comprehend that it's not about pulling rank over who hurts more. The "systematic removal" is important in that it set a dangerous presedence for a time in the future to make ALL pregnancy's be registered and ALL babies distributed to only the most fit holding a license to parent.
That's eugenics my dear. Now does that sound like a BSE mother pulling rank?
LeslieB