September 20, 2017

A Bullying Culture

A Bullying Culture
As someone who was raised as a middle class, heterosexual white female and who now lives a very small and secluded life, I have felt I have little of worth to contribute to the current threads of narrative around gender and race. I am too acutely aware of my privilege and in equal measure my ignorance of what it is to be on the other side of the cultural divide.  As a sensitive human I am laying low, I am nursing my psyche through great gaping wounds of grief and shame, I am relentlessly searching inside to find an interface with something true and enduring, so that I find that I have come to a place where I feel I belong much more implicitly to something very much "other" to my culture, but something difficult to define or articulate with the language or the lens of our modern day world, something deeply personal and self-determined and largely at odds with the edicts of my society. I am listening to dreams and trying to discover what love really looks and feels like in the body. I am dancing through my shame and self-loathing to seek an acceptance of my awkward embodiment. I am trying to learn what it is that a child really needs to grow up empowered and free and whole unto herself, I am seeking to hold the full weight of this responsibility. I am trying to learn how to be gentle with this Earth upon which I depend so implicitly for my own survival. I am trying to bring forth into manifestation the creative nudgings which emerge from within what I discover about myself along the way, that might hold some clue of truth or meaning as to why it is that I am here at all. I am not versed in the current cultural narratives of gender and race and white heterosexual privilege and supremacy and so without a doubt I may well put my foot in it, but lately I have felt that there is something I want to say, and it is to my fellow white folk, it is to us, we of the dominant way that is so afraid to not be right, that is so hungry to be so sure and certain about the shape of things, we that are really just so afraid and so hungry. 
As a child there were times when I was seen by my peers in the schoolyard, that cultural frontline of prejudice and brutality, as insufficiently aligned with the acceptable paradigms of the societal imperatives of my time,  as seen and interpreted through the eyes of that societies most susceptible and perceptive of up-holders, its children. I was bullied and teased in the early years of my primary schooling. I hated school and it’s culture of bullying. At the time I wasn't really sure why, but in hindsight it may have had something to do with the Indian embroidered tunics that my mother dressed me in, or the old beaten up Peugeot that my parents drove, but I think it went deeper than that, it was my woundedness, my vulnerability, my sensitivity, my belonging to an unseen world that was not so easily understood, I was a little dreamer, I wrote poems about my own uncertainty and the vastness that I perceived in the spaces between things and in the world around me when there weren't any people around, in the vastness of the night sky through my bedroom window when I couldn't sleep at night. Please don't perceive me as positing this information in order to compare myself to those who have been outcast far more overtly and brutally than myself, for reasons of gender or sexual orientation or for racial or cultural differences, I deeply understand that this is another playing field altogether, that I will never truly understand, being myself so largely on the culturally privileged side of the battlefield that is life for some.
What I do want to speak to though, is a sense that the fear, the bigotry and bullying, the fascist brutality that operates against those seen as "other" to what is culturally acceptable to a rigidly gendered, homophobic, racist paradigm, also controls itself very brutally from within. Deep inside the dominant culture of my white Australian education, there existed an urgent imperative to suppress particular qualities and energies, that were seen as unacceptable to the powers that be in our acculturation and I feel this is something we need to address as white Australians, it is desperate and dire that we do so. 
I remember at school it was the boys who didn't fit the rigid precepts of "masculinity" that were taunted with words like “poofter” and “homo”, they were singled out and named this long before they had become sexually active, long before they had chosen a mate for themselves. Similarly girls who didn’t innately comply with the pretty, pretty, vacuous precepts of femininity were equally labeled “dyke” or “lesso”. I’m sure the words change throughout time and location, it offends me to use them but I heard them enough, echoing around the concrete grounds of the institutions we were indoctrinated in. I wonder if what was being picked up upon as a marker of "otherness" was more than just the orientation of their sexuality, the gender of person they might one day choose to engage with in their own loving. Not to undermine in any way the significance of this life choice, I am also curious about what else is being shunned and shamed in conjunction with this more overt expression of our sexual orientation. It seems to me that there are often qualities of being that are primarily targeted, that are not exclusive to the colour of our skin or the nature of our sexuality. Gentleness, vulnerability, emotional intelligence, sensitivity, artistic/creative sovereignty, individuality, flamboyance, a sense of the numinous/ sacred/spiritual, empathic qualities, attunement to nature, nurturing tendencies, introversion, introspection, autonomy, empowerment, individuality, dancing to one's own tune. There is an exiling of these qualities and those who exhibit them too overtly that occurs within the dominant culture that is clearly amplified to an intolerable extent where there are additional factors of race, gender and sexual preference involved that distance the individual further from the apex of desirability, from the distortion of hyper-masculinity, or the objectified and domesticated feminine, the brutal cynicism, economic rationalism and materialism, fascist anti-sensitivity, colonizing mentality of the culturally indoctrinated imperatives of our time.
I do not know if the school ground is the same now as it was 40 odd years ago. Or if the modern day work place mirrors the school yard, I would certainly hope not. I cannot speak to the experience of those who suffered more brutally than I did in their occupation of the territory of "otherness". I do not put myself in the same strata of struggle that others have experienced, but I do know deeply what it is to be a sensitive, empathic, creative, emotionally vulnerable, spiritually leaning, deeply feminine human, raised in a culture that meticulously subjugated these qualities in the cruel interface of its school grounds and mainstream cultural narratives. 
As a human being, I am endeavoring to address the shame that I associate with being born into a culture of white supremacy, because I know that it does not serve the evolution of my people, nor does it enable liberation for those subjugated by my kind. It robs me of the feeling that my voice could mean anything in the volatile soup of our cultural discourse, and I wonder if we might now just need all the voices to be heard. I carry within myself a deep fear that if I speak out I will reveal the ways I have not yet seen and taken responsibility for my own indoctrinated bigotry. I am so open to learn. I live a very small life, possibly because I heeded the messages given to me as a small child in a predominantly white, middle class Australian State School, that there wasn't really a place in the world for the qualities that came naturally to me, but for many other reasons also, not the least of which being personal choice. I do not engage particularly with mainstream media, I raise my children outside of the mainstream educational system, I am an introvert and a dreamer, an artist and a poet, my finger is not on the pulse of current social discourses, I do not hold a degree in these matters though I seek deeply to understand them in my own skin. Sometimes it feels very frightening to be so unhinged from the world of my own culture. I don't really know whether what I am fumbling to articulate has any relevance to anyone but me, and understand it may be most relevant to me in revealing to others that which I hide from myself as much as that which is understood within me. 
But I feel from my place on its fringe, that as a culture, and I am speaking here of the dominant white culture of modern Australia, we need to learn to embrace and stretch into some of these qualities that are shunned in the psyche of its inhabitants. Qualities of emotional attunement, creative thought and expression, artistic imperatives, concerns of care and reciprocity and tenderness towards that which is seen as "other", or that which we are afraid of, within our own beings. Can we develop our capacity to be vulnerable and to gain some comfort in "not knowing" and "not seeing" what it is that must be done, surrendering to the greater mystery of life, coming to understand concepts of reciprocity and sovereignty and the primal matrix in which we are embedded, to evolve our receptive capacities to listen and to receive and to open to the unseen powers that be in the world around us and beyond us, and within us? We may need to come to embrace with a deeper capacity the qualities of fierce care, of heartfull compassion, of sensitive attunement, of empathic communion if we are to liberate our fumbling human world from its unimaginative and demoralizing shackles. 
It seems to me there is an apartheid of consciousness within our culture that is atrophied and excruciatingly rigid. The little boys and girls within our own  psyches may need to learn that it doesn't make you a wierdo or a freak, that you will not be jeered at, or pelted with stones or mocked and ridiculed, excluded and shamed, if you were to choose to feel a little more deeply, to risk being a little different, to be a little less certain of one’s own rightness and entitlement, and a little more open to how it might be to be a little more inclusive and a little less barricaded against that which might grow our compassion and our sensitivity and our universality as co-creators and blessed recipients of this cosmic gift of life in a body, in the gloriously diverse tapestry of humanity, on an exquisitely beautiful and life-giving planet, in a mind-bogglingly vast and magnificent and unknowable cosmos. 
In order for a culture to name such a vast array of human traits and leanings and embodiments as "wrong", there must be at its heart a deep fear and insecurity. I see the way that we police our people to comply to a paradigm of shame and suppression and compliance to an authority that is sourced outside of the self, outside of the heart and the soul. It is a small place we are given in which to be free, in which to love, it is full of punitive conditions and rules and imperatives to comply, that make us in turn small and mean and violent. It is a way of being that is in truth heartbreaking, and that is destroying the paradise of this planet we call home. We become barren and broken and cruel in the wake of what we are told we must be, to belong to this culture. 
I am trying with all my heart to choose another way, and for me what that looks like is to listen to the parts of myself that my culture has made other, the wild edge of the interface of my soul with the mystery of creation. What does the dream tell me I am? How do I unearth my intuition and instinct from my own acculturation? What does the earth ask of me, the ground that we so brutally stole from our indigenous brothers and sisters, how can I learn to speak its language? What do my fellow humans ask of me, how might we all come to find deep rooted belonging in the skin which we inhabit? How do I help others belong more deeply to themselves by belonging more deeply to my own self? How do we come home to love? Who are my ancestors, to what did my people once belong? What is mine to atone for? How can it be that the more mytho-poetic and archetypal realms of life may offer us allegiance and assistance rather than be seen as a threat to the narrowness of either our hyper-rationalist, dogmatically scientific vantage point or our archaic and annihilatingly outmoded religious perspectives?
I am so very full of questions and have so few answers, but I wonder if there might be medicine in this for those of us who dwell within a chrysalis of cultural privilege. Medicine to be received in choosing instead to be the ones who don't know, who don't have the answers for everybody else, maybe we need to become less of ourselves before we can again become more. Maybe we need to seek to know all of ourselves, not just the culturally condoned parts, in order to feel less afraid and less hungry and more willing to be the one small piece of the vast puzzle that we were born to be, rather than to try and tell others what piece they should be. We miss out on so much beauty and colour and magnificence and glorious heartfull human love when we insist that others fit our own strangulating imperatives. 
It is a long journey to come to know oneself as the wounded and to seek to heal, I know because I have taken some excruciating but liberating steps down that dark and tangled path. It takes such tremendous courage to own the ways in which our beliefs have done harm to others, who were innocent, it takes courage to perceive the violence that dwells within our own gaze. I know we can make more room for otherness, I know we can come to celebrate and receive the precious gifts of a world of diversity, but first we must do it inside of our own selves. To take the journey we will need all the tools we can muster. We will need to be very gentle with ourselves. We will need to be very soft and tender, it will probably feel very vulnerable. We might often feel lost and uncertain. We will need to learn a fierce inclusivity and a great compassion. We will need to learn how to be loving and kind to ourselves, and radically accepting of our own differences and desires. We will need to call on spirit. We will need to learn this journey cannot be made alone. We will need to connect deeply into our loving mother, the earth. We will need the help of all of our fellow humans, they will have much to teach us. I know we can do it though. We might just need to be very gentle with ourselves and try not to be too harsh when we judge ourselves. We might just come to realise that there is a place for us, beyond the one we have so brutally claimed, a little human sized shape just for me and one too, just for you, as you are unique, no better or worse than any other.
It feels imperative that at some stage we come to recognize the dire trauma and displacement and persecution that lies at the heart of our culture. We are a deeply wounded people who have been robbed of our capacity to grieve, ourselves torn, at some long ago point in our ancestral history, from our own place of belonging and cultural cohesion and thrust into this headlong imperative to homogenize and colonize and rationalize life into a bleached, eroded, wasteland of progress. As someone who is ready to admit I know nothing and have no idea what the answer is, I wonder if we must somehow own our woundedness, address the severity of our own intergenerational trauma, the millennia of it, and begin to learn how to grieve for what we have lost in our compliance to a colonizing wave of violence and power. We are at the crest of that wave, perhaps it is time that we let ourselves be drowned, so that we can find a deeper inhabitation of what progress and advancement might look like. By drowning I mean to maybe allow the engulfment of the feeling realm, surrender to the primordial oceanic consciousness of the bigger, more inclusive aliveness of the world.
Is it controversial to say that the same restrictive, punitive, punishing, shaming sentiments that we inflict on those "others" to our conventional, white, heterosexual profile, we also inflict upon ourselves collectively and most insidiously from within the acculturated self? We are all brutally impacted by this regime of rightness and wrongness, of goodness and badness, of polarising dichotomies of blame and shame and punitive narratives of manipulation and control. It does occur to me at times that actually no one feels safe to be exactly who we are in this modern world of ours, we all live to some degree in a state of hyper-vigilance in regards to how we inhabit our bodies, our skins, our desires. It doesn't really feel safe for anyone to deeply incarnate into wild embodiment in this artificial world we have created for ourselves.
I have felt great shame and hungered to find a way of enacting some sort of radical restitution or atonement for all the wrongdoings of my kind, the genocide and slavery, the rape and pillage, the medicalization and institutionalization of otherness or neediness, the hideous prejudice and dehumanization of those who fall outside of the creed of dominance. At the very least I have tried to live a life that seeks to minimize the harm done, whilst engaging with the process of seeking to discover in what ways one can do good or contribute something like unto a balm upon the wound to the soul of our shared humanity on this planet. But whilst I am so deeply sorry and so willing to engage with a process of atonement, I have always fallen short of knowing what on earth one would offer, of finding anything that could remotely touch upon the injustices inflicted by my people. What is there that one can do to make up for all that? 
Perhaps now it seems to me that the greatest gesture of atonement we can enact, as those embedded in the dominating paradigm is to take the arduous path of becoming self-determined. To come to truly see the dire severance we embody from the unified field of creation and the extent of our own woundedness within the family of our humanity. Perhaps we need to do less, to do nothing, to get out of the way and to look very deeply inside. Perhaps our work is not with the other, perhaps it is with our own selves, the formidable work of coming home to ourselves, our true primordial origins, our vital roles in creating a new paradigm of unity and acceptance. Perhaps our job is to heal our own separation, so that we no longer require others to be demeaned in order for us to feel powerful. Whilst this is a mythic journey it happens in the minutia of our mundane existences. Part of this journey might be learning to look and listen, to hear and see, that which is behind and beyond and between. Learning to seek and to know what is true, not because the mind has been taught, the identity instructed, but to know from the living animalness of your bodies, through the fertile interface of our embeddedness in the Earth, from the blood pumping thirst of our own hearts and the finely filamental tendrils of our dreaming souls as they span the cosmos as we sleep. 
I remember a moment from my life in the school yard so vividly. It was at a point in time when I had finally and momentarily secured a precarious position of friendship that had temporarily alleviated the intensity of my conspicuous invitation to be teased. I remember how fragile I was, how broken and how I would have done anything at that point to just fit in, to belong, to not be seen as other, to have relief from the torment of that mantle. Some of the girls who had somehow inexplicably befriended me began to taunt and tease another girl, another outcast, herself seen as a threat to the indoctrination of normality. Was it her weight, her fear, her clothes that had marked her out? As the girls teased I stood at the back, behind them, engaged in my own torturous battle. I knew exactly what was happening, not a week before it had been me on the other side. In that moment I said nothing, I did nothing, I stood back as silent witness, but something vital took a blow inside me that day. I had somehow suddenly been included, become that which I had abhorred, I had finally come to belong, belong  to something that did harm, not just to those who did not comply but also to the soul of those who perpetrated the punishment of not belonging. 
There is much work to do in repairing the warp and weft of the soul of those of us who have done harm, either through our violence or our silence. I wish I had known then, as that traumatized little girl, what it was that I truly belonged to, how truly brave my soul could be, how little I needed those girls, to know that I deeply belonged to a web of creation that embraces all, and can find a tender perch for even the most strange and peculiar of us. I wish I had known the importance of sisterhood and kinship and inclusion, and the healing that comes when truth is spoken to the false and the way that all the forces of the universe are behind us when we work to reconcile that which is outcast, and home the gifts of our own exile. Needless to say, my belonging to this group of taunting girls was very short lived, and actually my schoolyard salvation came not long after when I banded together with enough misfits to become a formidable enough formation to be left alone to our own devices. But I do wish, all these years later and with all my heart, that I could reach across time and move my body towards her, that persecuted girl in the school yard, Christy was her name. I wish I could reach out my hand to touch her skin, palm to palm, to make of her my friend. 

Text © Lucy Pierce 2017



For decades and millennia,
she had been a woman uprooted, 
but now was one whose potent shoots
were again sinking deep into the fertile soil.
And so the woman scorned, 
turned to He 
in whose name she had been shamed,
and said “No, enough, I am done.
You will not do harm unto my sovereignty any longer.
I have done no wrong here and there is no part of me 
that deserves your punishment. 
My body is a temple, it is sacred.”
And the God within Eve,
which knew itself through her holy embodiment,
said unto the God who spoke in punitive tones from on high,
“You cannot cast me out, 
because I cannot leave the sanctuary of my own beingness,
it is the gate through which I walk. 
I claim my own authority as a direct interface 
with the threshold of divinity.
I cannot be exiled because I am a part of everything, 
I cannot be made separate 
because I am whole unto myself and all of love. 
You cannot banish me from the garden
because I am a living expression of that garden.
She blooms more verdantly within me 
with each passing of the moon. 
I reclaim the snake, 
for she is my great ally.
She is the ladder that links the polarities of divinity, 
the conduit of union between the earth and cosmos, 
she taught me that life is sweet and juicy 
and ripe for the plucking, 
that there is a path to awakening that is found 
by entering into the body, 
taking the fruit of life inside, 
through inclusion, nourishment, 
harvest, bounty, 
the sacrament of endarkenment, 
to balance the mystery of our enlightenment. 
You will no longer set me apart from man, 
he is my equal and my friend, 
I carry his qualities within me 
as he carries mine within him, 
and we stand side by side in this life.
I renounce the grief that has wracked me for millennia,
the illusion of our separateness.
I give you back the lie that he would have dominion over me, 
for in doing so he does harm unto all of life.
The energy dwells within me as my purity of purpose,
and walks beside me as my friend and ally, 
together from here we are facing forwards,
and there is no longer room for all the harm done,
each to each in the woundedness of our exile,
we renounce the pain and seek only love in the spaces between.
No longer will he be my misguided direction, 
nor my heroic salvation,
for I am already home and whole.
No longer will I make of him the grand distraction 
from the immutable knowing of my own righteous wilderness.”
And to Lilith, her ancient rival in uprootedness, she said,
“Come back, my sister, come in,
come dwell here with us, 
there is room for the many faces of woman. 
Your power does not threaten me, 
the world is made more bright by our difference. 
Let us tend the diversity of this garden together, 
we cannot be turned out, 
for it is our birthright 
and it flowers in our hearts. 
We will raise the food to nourish the whole, 
we will plant the seeds that will create the magnificence 
of our own reflections, 
our resonant vibrations a testament to the unshakable offering 
of our own communion with the interface of creation, 
each of us a face of the Source of life, 
no one less than another, 
each sovereign and powerful in their capacity 
to know themselves as the unshakable presence of Love.
So deeply embedded in my own becoming, 
I understand that no sister was ever my rival, 
only my teacher, 
and another woman's power is never a threat, 
but rather serves to embolden the clarity of my inner-sense 
to know myself as whole. 
Here we shall dwell together with all our daughters 
and tend the garden side by side.
And to those daughters she said, 
“Don't believe the lies that anyone can take anything away from you. 
You are so fiercely protected by the interface 
of your own embodiment in the heart of love.
Enter into the wilderness of your own chaos 
and come to know yourself.
Feel the starry crown descend upon your brow 
as you sink your mud encrusted feet 
into the cells of your own earthly becoming, 
deep roots into the power of your love 
that no one can rob from you.”
And to any who would know woman 
as a lesser thing , she said, 
“The pain of my womb as it brings forth life unto itself,
is my greatest blessing, 
through it I am birthed anew, 
through the eye of the needle 
into the kingdom of heaven 
which dwells within me, 
and between the union that seeded the life that blooms, 
and between the babe who suckles unashamed at my breast. 
Your curse has become the most transmutable of gifts.
It has become the portal through which I enter 
into exquisite intimacy with the dark edge that gives me power, 
the shadowed veils of this embodied life 
which have gifted me temerity and endurance.
Through my pain the future is born quivering from my thighs,
and this power to face and know myself through the darkest of hours
has brought me home again to the garden of my birth rite,
has become the primal gateway through which I enter again 
the powerful perfection of my imperfect embodiment.
Your punitive imperative no longer holds sway here,
in the wake of my immaculate conception, 
gestation and birthing of sovereignty.
Spirit speaks to me through the fecund folds of my flesh,
the succulent creation of new tissue,
the fertile flow of my blood,
the bitter tears of my shedding,
the glistening filaments of my dreaming soul,
connected imperceptibly to the tomes of cosmic lore.
For I am the earth from which the garden blooms
and She, my mother, carries me on Her back in every living moment.
She will not have me forget who it is that I am,
how deeply I belong in the matrix of Her love.
I have come home to the garden,
and it is in need of my tending,
for the eons have swelled in the wake of my forgetting, 
upon the false tides of the myth that I am separate.
And now the story of my excile 
has become so old that it is dying.
And in its place a new one is being born, 
woven from the threads 
of our immutable belonging.”

Image and Text © Lucy Pierce 2017

September 8, 2017

The Delicate Gestures of Creation

"Abundance" by Shaunna Henshall 2017

I am so delighted to have become the custodian of this beautiful painting by Shaunna Henshall of @theforgottenhymn and

I feel so enlivened to behold those of us who live with such courageous sensitivity and intimate receptivity to the world around them, those who spend time dwelling in the in-between realms, bringing new life forth through the sensorial dimensions of their soulful permeability and the minutia of stroke, stitch, tone, strum on the taut canvas of the world, making life holy with the newness of their seeing and their trust in the unknowable. 
The courage of those who live in such fine attunment with the etheric interface with creation is where my hope lies for our earth. That She may birth a new future for Herself, through the whispers we still ourselves to hear, we will ourselves to trust, cultivating a relationship of reciprocity with the unseen, becoming the conduit through which the sacred is reborn anew to our kind.
The vast majesty of this cohesive world is made up of a multitude of fine, tender, delicate expressions of faith, the blade of grass, the leaf, the petal, the plume, the strand of hair or fur, the fin, the skin, the molecules and particles of creation. I feel we should never underestimate the power of fine and delicate things. Like the strands of grass that weave together to become a sturdy basket, which gapes wide to receive unto itself the mysteries of starlight and the vast night sky; the minute brush stroke of a bird's wing or a leaf's vein, that gives the soul flight. The world is put together by small things, it is made rich and relational by all the tiny offerings of our sovereign love, the choice to risk the actioning of what we cannot know until the step is taken, the formless given shape and meaning through our hand, the vision made realised through the embodied offering of the purity of our genesis. 

Life is given meaning by all the delicate gestures put together, through the maternal touch of care, the soulful tending of craft, gesture upon gesture upon gesture, alchemizing earth, air, fire, water, spirit into manifest reality, the heartfull caress of the body, the union of vibration and movement, song and dance, poetry and motion, paint stroke and cross stitch, bringing us home to eternity through the sensate presencing of our magnificent power to co-create this exquisite symphony of collaborative existence.

Image shown courtesy of Shaunna Henshall
Text © Lucy Pierce 2017

August 31, 2017



The mystical threshold of motherhood,
death and rebirth,
turning in towards that which repels us,
mothering the inner child, 
nursing the wound,
alongside the wonder,
allowing the breast to be a conduit
 for the cosmic river of milky love, 
nourishing us as it flows 
through the being to the ravenous mouth of the small one 
who wakes us up, 
as the activation of our milky love nourishes the stars in turn,
making the cosmos more beautiful,
mothering self and child, 
the two as one,
learning what it is that holds you 
as you hold other,
the excruciating death of becoming nothing 
but a conduit for creation, 
in service to love, 
the weight of the gift, 
the displacement of it,
the longing to bounce out 
and to have again what came before, 
what will come again after,
tears flowing rivers, 
healing the separation
of ourselves with source, 
the mother to her child, 
the child to her mother,
the self to the world,
the world to self,
dissolving into the transmutation,
making the world safe, 
by feeling it all and owning ourselves, 
the light and the dark, 
the giving and the withholding, 
the nourishing and the wounding, 
powerful work,
deep medicine work in the body of woman, 
flesh as magic, spirit as form, 
pain as becoming, surrender as arrival.
Psychically shielding the primal matrix from the world,
as life creates itself 
in the enduring trimester 
of our becoming earth bound 
with our babes, 
through our babes, 
and their still-tethered-to-the-spirit-world gaze.
Drinking, drinking, drinking 
in the divine mother Gaia's love,
we cannot survive this without her,
as we cradle the babe,
allowing ourselves to be the babe that is cradled, 
dying, being reborn, 
annihilated, retrieved, 
ecstasy, bliss,
terror, annihilation, 
tears, milk, blood,
love, grief, dislocation,
making whole, 
soothing the unmet child inside, 
returning to the cosmic womb, 
being rewoven into the miracle that is 
the embodied, sovereign, 
powerful, attuned mother
in this world that would scorn her.
Radical revolution of love and care,
transmuting in the cells,
driving in new roots, 
powerful work, becoming whole, 
and giving the child the opportunity 
to know herself as all things,  
always returning to love.

Image and text Lucy Pierce © 2017

August 5, 2017

Her Dark Face

Her Dark Face

I think that one thing it's safe to say about those of us who are mothers is that we love our children. We could also say that as mothers we do the best that we can with what we have, with what has been given to us. I think it's also safe to say that what we are given as humans-becoming-mothers in our western culture is often not sufficient to keep our babies completely emotionally intact and heartfully incarnated. For some of us it is not always possible, especially the first time around, to keep our children completely safe from harm, safe from violence, shame, neglect, not just those threats which might come from the world around us, but also those which arise from within us as care-givers. 

In becoming mothers in the world in which we currently find ourselves living, we are left relatively ill-equipped and unassisted in the soul work of becoming a parent, in attending to the task of raising a new-born human-being, who is completely helpless but for the capacity of us as parents to attune and attend in a profoundly selfless way to our children, even when we did not receive this attunement ourselves in our own beginnings of life. Often our own wounds of becoming have not been adequately tended to, and some of us are besieged with the afflictions of having been raised in a culture that abdicates our authentic, embodied sovereignty and purpose, for a submissive subservience to a violent, power driven and disembodied culture of suppression, control and avoidance. 

Often it is the very act of becoming a mother or a parent that puts us up against the deep stories that we carry unattended within our own bodies. Certainly for me becoming a mother was the beginning of my awakening into all the ways I did not feel safe to be myself and also into beginning to discover the true power of my birthright as a woman. The touching up against that primal and visceral profundity that is the birthing journey left me forever changed, but the journey of discovering how to hold the capacity to deeply attune and attend to the needs of another on an ongoing daily basis, was long and arduous and not without its casualties. 

The way in which I have unconsciously embodied uncomprehended feelings of grief, pain, shame and powerlessness in my journey as a human being, have at times impacted on my capacity to mother, and I understand that this has at times taken it’s psychic toll on my children. As a young woman I did not innately know how to selflessly and fiercely, deeply and profoundly give myself to the task of mothering my first born baby, glorious as she was. My heart was hers completely from the start and for always, but I had not been schooled in how to wholeheartedly surrender to the force of maternal love, that I definitely tasted in the oxytocic waves of my biological becoming of mother, but which were so deeply triggering to my own life-times worth of conditioned suppression of emotion, and within that the feelings of being deeply unsafe in my own skin. 

There were implications to my exquisite daughter's capacity to wildly abandon herself to her emotional expression, through her crying as a baby, her tantrums as a toddler, her needs as a young child, that required me to sift and sort through the chaff and grain of my own acculturation and upbringing. It has taken an enormous amount of psychological work to unravel my embeddedness in a system that requires at it’s core, for our true wild feminine natures to be suppressed and controlled, in order that we can be manipulated as commodified entities in an economically driven paradigm that really has very little room for motherhood or for caring in general. 

I have carried great shame and soul-loss over events that have occurred, primarily in my early years of mothering. I have struggled to own the times I have resorted to punitive approaches to conflict resolution; the times where my own lack of boundaries have put my children in unsafe places, unsafe relationships; using the power imbalances in our relationships as adult to child to dominate rather than befriend arising energies, to avoid facing my own shortcomings and lack of resource; all the times I have handled my children too roughly, with too much force, rather than deepening my breath and fearlessly embracing the unknown and the uncomfortable within my own psyche; all the times I have raised my voice; all the times my unconscious preoccupation has caused my children harm. There have been times when my own struggle for truth and autonomy have led me into dark places where my children would have felt the full weight of my unavailability, my lack of capacity to heartfully hold, so bound up I was in the internal wrestling with my own wounded inner child. 

But I am wondering now if I can allow my deep love for the great primordial force of motherhood to grow and expand to accommodate all these short-comings, so that I can be more available to my own being in this life. I feel that I no longer want to hide from this story that lives inside me, but rather take a deep breath and give it voice. What if for a moment I entertained the possibility of accepting a more multi-dimensional quality to the role of motherhood in the shaping of a life? That as part of the terrain of being mother there is the wounding as well as the sheltering, the destructive as well as the nourishing qualities, the dark as well as the light aspects of Her holy face?

I feel that I am in the midst of this personal awakening to an acceptance and a re-homing within myself of this dark face of mother, her shadowy underbelly, the one who has wounded or damaged her children, as well as having offered them comfort and love, solace and care, because whilst the damage is done from that which is unformed or suppressed or distorted within our own psyches, I also see a deep distortion and indeed, a violence in what our expectations are of ourselves as mothers and the unattainable nature of our idealisations of the maternal imperative, which can leave us wallowing in a deep stew of shame and inadequacy. 

I want to try on for size a different personification of mother, one which can hold two equally potent expressions and a myriad of shades in between, the all-giving nurturer and also the death-wielding destroyer. A primal and ancient part of my psyche knows both of these faces and when I can take a step back and embrace a more accepting and compassionate countenance, I can see that both of these faces are in fact life-giving, and necessary for the growth and evolution of our kind. I am trying on the mask of this dark mother and finding she sits with a potency and alchemical frisson that liberates life-force energy within me. This dark and destructive face of mother is a natural part of our inheritance as women, to accept on a most intimate level that her terrain contains both light and shadow, to disavow the duplicity of espousing her virginal and pure aspects over her chaotic, instinctive imperatives, thus coming to belong more deeply to ourselves as whole and complex humans.

I mean in no way to condone or excuse the mistreatment of the vulnerable, but rather to liberate the reality of motherhood from the petrifying ideal of the all-giving, all-nurturing provider of love and care that actually creates even more separation and trauma in the psyche of woman. In truth my heart is always asking me to find a deeper expression of my love for those in my life and in my care, but what if I extend that life-giving accommodation that I aspire to in the care of my children to my own self first and foremost, to be forgiving and tolerant, rather than punitive and dismissive, in regard to the behavior that has presented in my journey to becoming a more compassionate, aware and awake human being. Perhaps it is only now, having journeyed so deeply, and for so long, with my healing of this shadow side of motherhood that I am truly able to distance myself enough to see it. This story has been the main catalyst for so much soulful digging and delving into the far reaches of my being and I am now finally feeling a deeper resonance with the great evolutionary journey of learning how to love.

Perhaps the darker aspects of the archetype of Mother only become destructive in the absence of their free expression, in the suppression of their life-giving imperatives and attributes. It is perhaps in the absence of these powerfully embodied, instinctual qualities of the feminine principle that our fear and shame turns violent and punitive, as a secondary response to the lack of that potent, healing and transformational alchemy of our full spectrum of expression and experience of our wholeness, of our fierce boundaries and soulful attendance to the needs of the self.  I feel it is this imperative to be whole and fully expressed and in possession of a powerful sense of self knowledge that our culture fails to school us in, as we journey towards parenthood. Indeed perhaps it is this imperative to autonomy and internally sourced power that is in fact overtly suppressed, enabling the passing on of destructive coping mechanisms, formed in response to our own impotence and rage as a suppressed people, caught in the viscous cycles of intergenerational trauma.

So...I am endeavoring to take responsibility for the ways in which I see that I have inhabited She Who Wounds, harms, abandons, neglects, betrays, does damage to the precious life that is placed in her care, because this is a part of my story and also I think, a part of our greater cultural narrative. As I understand the ways in which I have perpetuated energies of suppression and control upon my children I am also embarking upon a crusade of equal measure, to deeply forgive myself for this inhabitation, because what this situation requires to the least degree is more shame. Shame can be such a festering disease that poisons the vulnerable and the traumatized while leaving the overarching paradigm of a brutalizing culture unhindered, unaccountable for the soul loss it inflicts on those who are wounded within its midsts. Can I accept and bring a deep compassion to bare upon myself, not just as the abused but also as the abuser, and beyond that can I be the bringer of the love, compassion and kindness that was the missing requirement from the beginning? Can I be both the wounded and the source of the wounding, as well as the balm that heals the wound? 

I am endeavoring to see myself as a player in a vast interplay of energies, where the wounded go on to wound, until this cycle becomes so excruciating that we begin to wake up. The beginning of this waking up for me is this taking of responsibility. I am finding it takes a great courage to squarely shoulder the blame for the pain that has flourished from one's own hand. It requires a great presence to not justify and defend but to just sit still, in the discomfort, feeling the weight of it in the body. I have come to see that this weight is fully mine to bare in this moment, in this life, not in order to more deeply punish myself but rather to cease asking it of my children to make this situation okay for me, to cease asking them to collude with me in protecting me from fully seeing the truth of my own participation in cycles of pain and impotency. I need to carry the full weight of it so that I do not have to be invested in their lives in an inhibiting way, with the stifling imperative for them to be good, in order that I can know that I was a good-enough mother, as though my salvation were their salvation. I realise that I don't have to use them to feel okay about myself, and use my investment in their wellbeing as a way of avoiding taking responsibility for my own part in this perpetuation of pain. I feel that if I can forgive myself, which I find when it comes down to it that I can, for my perpetuation of abusive cycles, I do not have to ask them to do the work of forgiveness for me, liberating them to use their own life force to tend to the consequences of their own wounds, and ultimately their own healing. 

The answer for me, as I see it as one of the walking wounded, has not been to remove myself from the task of mothering, institutionalizing it’s imperatives as our culture would encourage us to do, but instead to firmly shoulder the responsibility for healing this paradigm of lack and separation, from the inside out, by claiming the life-giving aspects of Mother, both the gentle and selfless, and the fiercely clawed and toothed. Coming to embody the intimate immersion and the boundaried differentiation, so that I no longer need to fall into the paralysis or violence of the more shadowed realms of her inhabitation.

I see the ways in which I have colluded with my culture to attempt to inhabit a one dimensional caricature of the perfect mother, how I have punished and withheld love from myself for my inability to maintain this unattainable illusion, how this has had at times wounding impact on my children. I believe most powerfully in our capacity as human souls to see and to heal and to atone and to repair the unconscious damage we do in our living. Through these musings I am attempting to reclaim myself as the flawed and messy and passionate and loving mother that I am, so deeply full of wounds and scars but so fiercely in love with my children, and so ravenously hungry to belong to myself and to my tribe and to this life in a way that enables a deeper resonance of kindness and truth, tender care and raucous expression of life becoming more of itself, through the generations of our human awakening.

Image and text © Lucy Pierce © 2017

July 24, 2017


Often for me, images and writing lie dormant for a time, between conception and their birthing. For reasons beyond me, this image asked for it's time of birthing to be now, in this dark heart of winter, though she was conceived in the flaming heart of summer. Perhaps she has come to warm my cold bones and remind me that there is also that time of vitality and shining, that will come again.

Radiance by Lucy Pierce

The Sun
I hide from Him,
terrified that He will burn me.
In the cells of my body the story lives,
that He is predator, adversary
and that my only chance of survival is to protect myself,
to contract and hide,
from the warmth of His radiant love.
He did not flinch at my fear,
nor at my rejection of Him.
He kept on shining His love upon me,
as He has every day of my living life.
The playful humour of His fingers teased at me,
wooing me to peak out at Him 
from behind my defended shroud,
a white woman in a black country,
fair skin, fair game.
I hid until the only thing left for me to see
was how farcical my own withholding was.
Once I started looking, I discovered in myself,
the threads and tendrils of the pathways 
that know how to say YES
to say I surrender and I open to you, 
magnificent love.
And in the opening,
the bones of my ancestors yawned within me,
the millennia of stories of persecution and brutality, 
the lifetimes of being victim to distortion,
let go inside my clenched cells and danced out,
down the inside of my thighs,
thundering through my loins,
into the tender light of His radiant shining, 
burning themselves home to love,
making a pyre of my body.
And all through the long day I danced 
between my fear and my longing, 
until the earth beneath me, 
dry and brittle, 
stick and rock, 
ant and spider, 
dry eucalyptus leaves crunching, 
became a nest of the most exquisitely soft holding, 
as I let go and let go, 
as He shone His love down upon me,
so that the clouds dancing in the sky 
became an extension of the sensations 
of Eros within me, 
the pulsing undulations of cosmic love-making
between Earth and Sky,
and me caught between.
And I was home,
and forgiven,
and held in the purity of this love,
with all my relations,
beneath the great dome 
of His magnificent sky.
And every gust of wind a caress, 
a raucous passion
as I let the golden light shine in,
to cleanse and purify
to awaken and ignite,
to conceive and unite,
to know of His love in my bones
and to trust the direction of His shining,
to remember His ever-presence 
and to calibrate my inner experience of life
to the vastness of my own lovedness.
Such a glorious homecoming,
through which I am safer to be more of me,
to trust the masculine as a great force of love, 
more enduring than any distortion of man,
is to feel that life is an experience in which to thrive, 
not just survive,
as I open each and every cell of my body 

to be nourished by His fire. 

Prints and Cards of Radiance available through my Etsy site

Text and image © Lucy Pierce 2017