Warning: naughty language ahead!

Holy shit, literally—the Dark Goddess is in our compost!

Black Gold—that’s what they call her. That’s what they call composted soil. Nitrogen rich fertile soil for planting seeds of creation. She’s beautiful, she’s royalty, and she’s ready to be penetrated. Do you feel her?

In the Fall, we literally fall-down. We move towards death, darkness, and the downward pull of Winter. The place where parts of us begin to die and decompose. Parts of us are shredded, scraps of us are thrown away, the dead leaves of us turn into crunchy brown ash. The shells, the peels, the crusts of us are let go of. We grieve and we die.

Like hibernating bears, we enter the cave. The cozy and mysterious dream world of unknown wonder. The place where we dig a hole into the depths of ourselves, and crawl inside to die in anticipation that we will be reborn—become whole again. Some call it the Winter Blues. I call it Divine Order.

When we commune with the darkness of Winter, we decompose into a slush of unknown. A stinky, slimy, sludgy mess of oxygen, bacteria, and carbon rich material. We become a hot transmuting force for transformation. Burning, churning, devouring ourselves while simultaneously pooping out fertile manure.

I’m getting hot and steamy even thinking about it.

We ultimately become nitrogen rich soils ready for new growth. Fertile, alive, ready to be seeded with something new, ready to burst forth, grow bright, or fly high.

As Spring has sprung forth, I feel myself ready to be penetrated by God’s intentional seeds, I feel myself emerging. Popping open from the nitrogen rich soils beneath me as a new creature.

Am I a bird cracking through my shell and learning to fly?

Am I a snake slithering out into the world with feminine ferocity and flow?

Am I a bright shining sunflower growing up towards the Sun with a strong stock and bright eyes?

Or am I all of these things at once?

What are you blooming into? What shells are you discarding? What seeds are you planting? What kind of wings spread from your back? What color are your petals? What aroma is your flower? Tell me…Tell me…I’m curious!

Call her stinky…Call her dirty…I call her truly divine.​

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Apprentice Editor: Kristin Monk / Editor: Catherine Monkman

Photos: elephant archives, Flickr, Pixoto, Gail Margolis