The initiated woman has bled.
She’s bled from poor decisions that sliced her esteem wide open; and from unguarded boundaries being obliterated; and she’s bled willingly, because that’s what you do when people you love are anemic or have been hit by life—you give them your blood. Here, I have lots, it’s fresh and warm. I’ll make more.
She has gone through the eye of a needle, stripped, shed, pared down to the pure pith of her power. The few people who have seen her so naked will never speak of that beauty to anyone else.
She knows that when people are ready, they’re ready, and they’re never ready before they’re ready. Still, she holds the light for your readiness, because she knows how sweet it is when the time is right.
She’s modest, but bold to the depths. She knows that initiations are waiting for everyone to claim them. Courage is key.
She’s asked people to leave her house because they were consistently rude.
Now, she asks after the first offense—she knows where things are going.
If you don’t respect her, there’s not much to talk about.
It’s usually a succession of rigors—rarely a lightning strike—that earns her the license to teach. Her lessons can be precise, like the diamond that cuts diamonds. Essentially-focused.
She knows that playing nice perpetuates irresponsibility, but that kindness is wildly fertile.
She’s mindful of the how and the who in her bed, because it’s always more than that.
She doesn’t spiritualize immorality, but she understands it.
She has no time for excuses, but all the time in the world for intentionality.
She reveres accountability, which includes using the sword of justice, and singing operatic praises for things done the good way—or even attempts at the good way.
Scarred. Faceted. Radiant. Wide.
She’s so tender she prefers to whisper about her true nature, or write a poem. Abstract. Protected.
When the initiated woman tells you that “everything will be okay,” you tend to believe her.
She uses compassion like a lever to see what’s really going on.
She applies willfulness sparingly, like gas to fire. (’Cause she is the fire.)
She awaits, but gets on with things.
She can tell you with calm and certain sympathy that love is the shortest distance between you and me.
And that there are no shortcuts to initiation.