Articles on Women's Spirituality and Mysticism

	Patterns of Authenticity by Dana Reynolds
	Embracing the Mystery: The Reemergence of Mysticism by Dana Reynolds
	More articles by Dana Reynolds can be found at SoulfulLiving.com.
Poetry by Dana Reynolds

	Ancient Voices
	Mystics and martyrs.
	They lived in a time of darkness and danger, a time of miracles and madness.
	They were shamed and silenced.
	Broken and burned.
	And when they vanished from this world, they left their gifts behind.
	Their souls speak to us from beyond the veil through our ecstasies and visions.
	These are their poetry and solace for their sisters of the future.
	They left us the spiraled vessel for the sacred oil, wheat from the harvest, and candles to light our way.
	They knew the Goddess would return.
	They knew we would be waiting to welcome her home again.
	Utterances
	The story that is ready to be birthed speaks to me now in the voice of one who will wait no longer. Before I had language I knew this story. Memory was illumined as I held my small green Rosary beads in my hand. The utterance of prayers before I knew how to pray. Secrets carried in my dreams would later become my alphabet. A pilgrimage to a foreign cathedral, labyrinth walks at dusk, whispers and faces from ancient places. These things paved my path to this door. I enter now to engage the Mystery, to read the language etched into my skin, to know the one who knows my name. . .who knows my destiny.
	Connections
	My lineage spans hundreds. . .no. . . thousands of years.
	Unraveling before me like my grandmother’s braid at bedtime, my lineage winds backwards into the deep inky depths of herstory.
	Backwards.
	Bending.
	Twisting.
	My lineage takes the form of a phantom umbilicus, until at last it connects to the Great Mother.
	The First Mother.
	The Goddess in the Garden.
	I come from the cave woman, Enoku.
	Her hands are red with umber.
	She paints her story on stony walls and the bark of trees.
	Her hands are my hands.
	Her blessing is creativity.
	I come from Brindl, the Viking bride.
	Her eyes, it is said, became the color of the sea.
	Ever-changing with the whim of the tides.
	Ever-watching the horizon for her lover’s return.
	My eyes are focused on distant shores.
	My wanderlust and longing are Brindl’s ways.
	I come from Ariadne, the Amazon.
	Her limbs, strong and supple, carried her great distances.
	She protected her sisters as they hunted all the long winter.
	Stamina and strength come to me through Ariadne.
	I come from Sibyl the Sorceress.
	Prophecies and magic spilled from her chantings.
	The moon shared her secrets with this ancient alchemist.
	Sibyl cast seashells to find the names of things.
	My magic serves me.
	It is Sibyl’s magic.
	I come from Mataya, the Hag.
	Mugwart, chamomile, and wood-vine whispered their wisdom.
	Mataya, crone physician of the forest.
	Midwife, herbalist, hag.
	My powers of healing take root from Mataya.
	I come from Isabella, the dancer.
	Her body told a story through her hypnotic choreography.
	Her undulating movements awakened sleeping passion and set souls on fire.
	My body moves to her rhythm, her music.
	My sensuality is birthed from Isabella’s loins.
	I come from Sarah, the mother.
	Her breasts overflowed with the milk of life.
	Enough to feed the motherless children.
	My womb has experienced the great mystery of creation.
	Mothering is a blessing from Sarah.
	I come from those women I have named and others before them.
	My cells contain the memories of their days upon the earth.
	My wisdom is their wisdom.
	All that I am mirrors their collective image.
	Our souls are linked together through time and space.
	We are connected. . .eternally.
	Each of us birthed from the same holy cosmic womb.
	We come from the Mother.
	We come from the Goddess.