It is acceptable to be a sexual woman in our culture—but only within the right parameters. Be sexy, but don’t be too sexual. Be intelligent, but don’t be too embodied. As if those things are 
mutually exclusive.

A genius never before imagined in the blue ocean of woman far beyond the read shark infested waters of man. We do not need to avoid the water altogether. We need to swim out further. And do for woman and reality what Cirque de Soleil did for the circus. This is our gift, the added dimension of art, elegance, taste, quality, mysticism to the pre-existing. 

The sexual energies we could ride to our liberation on,
We turn into lassos to grab for the boyfriend, the husband,
The small pittance of love or approval.
That gift, invaluable,
We ration like misers, proudly starving ourselves and the world.

We’ve been told, over and over again, that a woman’s sexuality is dangerous. Dangerous to her. Dangerous to others. That it needs to be managed, contained, and—when it strays too far from the acceptable—condemned. But the danger isn’t in sex. It’s in the chains we’ve placed around it.

True beauty is not symmetry of facial features but a congruency between the keeper’s soul, heart,
and the expression in the physical.

A woman unleashed is at her best, but how many of us have ever really been unleashed?

How many have let the wild thing inside roam free without holding back?

In a culture that lacks the faculty of vision, the relationship to the Mother becomes distorted. She is viewed as a servant. This plays out in the psyche as what lures us back: into slumber, resignation, and complacency. 

Women for the most part do not see men as they truly are, but rather as projects to be molded or future husbands to fit a predetermined role.

A mandala where the feminine is not an accessory or something to be managed, but the foundation itself—the generative force that brings everything into being.