What Does it Mean to Be a Wild Woman?

I feel at times that this is a question that seems so impossible to answer. The act of being a wild woman is one of rebellion in modern society, yet this rebellion can be LOUD or very very quiet. It is as unique as the woman claiming the title.  It is an interesting topic to explore; the world is in such imbalance currently.  The divine masculine forces are so out of synch with its counterpart the divine feminine; how do we create balance within the self, thereby affecting the greater world, and is this act, in itself wild? Perhaps I am this wildling thing, waiting, exploring my moments, my perceptions of self and rebelling against what I have been told to be or act. Whatever it is, I only know that I am not willing to allow myself to be overtaken again by a society, a man, a mold of what I should be as a woman; if that makes me wild, well then I own it, proudly.

Here I am at 46, divorced twice, single, childless, tattooed, a purple streak in my long grey hair finding more freedom than I have ever experienced before.  That list of words is not labels, but rather choices of defiance and rebellion, ascertaining my wild life style.  I am also well educated, a professional, a writer; I was a teacher and a therapist, a supervisor and a leader in many fields, but those things are often perceived not as wild acts, but rather conformity. I have to argue against those allegations.  I have never found professions more rebellious than to be in charge of healing and shaping the minds of others, either in education, leadership, healing, or the influences of writing.  Right now, these words will have an impact on someone, even if just one person, and like that they too will be infected with this wilding gene, passing it along, waking up someone. They will make choices and share stories, creating a chain of wild acts of rebellion. Does this create a revolution of wild women rising up? I don’t know, but perhaps.

I have followed the Thirteen Indigenous Grandmothers for some time now, listening to their words.  They are certainly wild, bringing back the sacred feminine to the lips of the world, reminding us of the power of the skirt. Remind us how the hems can ride the winds of change, gathering in a multitude of ruffles forming abstract roses of power in our skirts.  When I wear a skirt, I think of this and of them. In ritual, I choose a skirt to bring about those energies and allow my femininity to flow, let my sexiness rise and billow in the hems, embracing that energy into my ceremony; it is perhaps here that I own my wildest form, finding the most freedom in the magic and energy swirling.

I think of the women at home married with children, this too is wild, bringing forth the young and shaping them to create a future.  How a home is run or developed can be one of the greatest acts of wilderness, but we have forgotten to honor these women.  We have turned away from them and turned up our noses as if they are mundane, but they are not.  They are the mothers of us all, the nurturers, the healers; they are wild in their defiance to carry on despite the changing tides of society’s perceptions about motherhood and women in the family.  They are wild as they whip out a breast in a fancy restaurant to feed their brood or use their family dollars to select organic products for their pantries.  These women are loud in their ways, stomping through the world, kiddies in tow demanding more.  Their hips and breasts heavy with the fat that nourishes us, nourishes the world, we condemn them for their shape, but they are beautiful and we would starve without them.  They are the personification of the divine union in their marriages, in their fight to keep the family together.

See here, this wild thing is so vast; it is in the Crone archetype that is wisdom and gently but firmly guiding her family as she sits at the head as matriarch.  She is Medea, she is Gloria Steinem, and she is my dear friend Louise.  We must honor these women in our lives, whether they are the fourteen year old activist for women’s rights in the Middle East or your neighbor’s daughter.  They are all wild in their own way, owning a part of this forest of wildling women.  I can’t possibly begin to answer the question of what it means to be a wild woman.  I can only say that I know that I am one, and so are you.

2016 Copyright by Katie Pifer http://www.witchpetals.wordpress.com

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