I recently wrote a piece about the  Predator in the psyche, using the myth of Bluebeard as a model. The question arose, what about the Predator in the female psyche? The part of us that colludes with patriarchy and attacks our sisters and friends? This piece is an exploration of that force, as I currently understand it. Mapping the Predator in the psyche of women is just as important as recognizing it in the behavior patterns of men. As I wrote in the Bluebeard essay, we have

Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Jungian analyst and brilliant folklorist, writes about the myth of Bluebeard in her seminal work, Women Who Run with the Wolves. The story of Bluebeard, also told as the story of Mr. Fox in the English folklore tradition, is a core myth revealing the workings of the Western mind. In the tale, a young woman is captivated by the charming mysterious powerful bachelor. Never mind that he has a string of failed marriages behind him. Nevermind that he is

Last night I dreamed of two juvenile whales emerging from the sea, while two playful black dogs swam around them. The whales approached and nuzzled gently. In the dream, I vividly saw my own hand tenderly caressing the faces of these playful giants, and I felt such a deep stirring of love and connection. The night before I dreamed of a pure white stag, with deep black eyes. He presented his forehead to touch mine, and I saw my hand, close up, gently stroking his antlers. Last

Since 2022, when I circumambulated the Poulnabrone Dolmen on the windswept Burren of County Clare, Ireland, I knew a seed had been planted in the marrow of my bones. The cloachan huts and ring forts and ancient yew trees and Tau crosses and ogham engraved living stones all sang awake something that had thrummed silently in the iron of my blood. A song that flowed like a river through all things, pulsing and effervescing as it coiled around and through the living breath of the

My hands run over the soft curve of my back, the firm suppleness of my thighs, the soft warmth of my belly that is well fed and has been home to the children I love. I think about the shape of this body, and the shape of the landscape that holds and nourishes this body. Sky Top, just a hill now but once a towering foothill of the Appalachian mountains, rises above us in the north sending her living waters down through the hollow we call home. Her waters will course on to the

She had laid bare her pain, her heart, her grief, her vulnerability, and we were sitting in the reality that life had fully unraveled and there was little in the way of safety or comfort in her current experience. Except for the redwoods that held her, and her trusty SUV, the world had become a wild and tumultuous place. As her spiritual care provider, I waited in my own still center for a movement, a glimmer, a word, phrase, or question. Something that would bubble up from a

His tiny mouth parts barely pierce the skin, but it's enough to inject formic acid, and get my attention. The lemony chemical pheromones...

"Are you okay? You seem sad." "Is everything alright? I can't remember the last time I saw you happy." "I just want you to be happy."...

It is almost Beltane, so of course I'm thinking about death. Let me explain. Beltane and Samhain exist at the same time, on the same...

Facebook became an enchanted mirror, showing me glimpses of the outside world as I spent countless hours nursing and holding my newborn....