Wild Mother

My inner wild woman is a writer, dancer, poet, she is the one who stirs and warms people with her humanness. She reviews the work of summer and she celebrates with autumn bonfires and dancing.
'Mother Hands' Film Still (2018)
​It is the wild woman who guides me when I write and speak and dance for she is my interior soul guide, my wisened craftswoman, my inner medicine woman. She is the bridge between the mother who labours and the crone who counsels. 
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'Mother Hands' Film Still (2018)
Truly, as I am writing this, this is a huge realisation: My inner wild woman is a writer, dancer, poet and sorceress. (She can teach me self- sourcing). She can connect me to what is soulful, and wise about my work. ​​
She's always the one who says: 
"Create create create! Begin,
start, express it. Make something of it. 
Above all, make your art."
​​​It follows, that by doing so, I will strengthen my relationship with the Wild Woman. ​
​No more will I compromise the wild creature that is
​life bringing, life loving, vital, and in tune.
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Summer Mother (2018)

​The presence of the mother is strong.
​She weaves her presence around and through my maiden self, catching her in large motherly hands when she stumbles, when my inner critic paints me as a wrong and broken miscreant and tries to convince me my maiden seeds are dirt. ​My inner mother is teaching me to be kind.

The Red Mother

"She is a watcher of things coming through.
Red is a promise of a borning soon to come."
- Clarissa Pinkola Estes -
'Red' Film Still (2019)
Untitled Film Still (2019)
​She appears to me in red,
Showing me my image of myself,
what I think I am,
what I think I am not.
And how the truth is somewhere in-between,
without limitations and suppressions placed
on ​what I can have of myself
​or be of myself.
 August 2018     

I tuned in to meet my inner mother. I saw a woman cloaked in a red shroud, the fabric falling round her head and shoulders, cloaking her body. Poking out of the bright blood red hood, a fall of long blond hair falling rapturously down her right check to her shoulder in perfectly styled waves. Beside her stood a white female wolf in her prime.

The woman’s lips were painted bright seductive red and her breasts hung fulsome and bare with pointed nipples. Her skin and limbs glowed with a warm soft light.

She held a red apple, she cut it in half and ate three slices. The other half she faced toward me so I could see the white flesh, the star shape, the black seeds.

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'Red Mother' Film Still, Dreamscape (2019)
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'Wild One' Film Still (2019)
She is a wild one
She is a wild one, wild one.
She's got twigs in her hair
and stars in her eyes.
She's got a midnight stare
and a smile like sunrise.

She's got a snake in her hips,
and a valley between her thighs.
She looks as hot as lustre
wearing those boot-leg knee highs.
Wriggle that bum, shake that hair
and roll down the bank with a giggle
​and a tumble, a cataphonic rumble,
O and when the sun sinks
you'll see her shadow grip the trees
and go cavorting with the wind:
black and red heads both:
you know they are twinned.
The wild, flame haired woman with a tinkle in her laugh,
And the Raven witch of glossy black
whose deathly kiss renews the hearth.
​And mystery stalks on royal paws
Through the night
to meet the wild one. 
She is a wild one, wild one.

on 'the wild in women'
Words from the well, 2020