Reclaiming my period

My period is my favourite time of the month.

Things have shifted since the early 2000s where the period was that frustrating, confusing time that rendered my back to groan and my soul to fill with dread. Such was the pull of internalised patriarchy of matrilineal lines of several generations past. Such was the tendency of modern society; to feed young women those messages. Telling me my cycle is a painful and slightly disgusting inconvenience from daily living. Showing me advertisements detachedly illustrating blue coloured water dropping mercilessly into pads as if the red colour of blood is something to be ashamed of. Being warned from my first bleed that I shouldn’t set foot in a temple because it’s neither clean nor pure to do so. Periods hurt, they said. It’s just one of those things women have to deal with, they said.

I took a discourse. A deep dive into my ongoing study of the divine feminine. And with it has come a delighted reclamation of my moon-time. And for the first time since that first bleed, my womb whispers “thankyou”.

In a time before the mass wave of organised religion swept the West, humanity worshipped the earth, the sun and the moon. The feminine form was revered for her wisdom, her connection to the divine and the moon-time was seen as sacred. Groups of women, all bleeding at the same time and most often with the new moon would temporarily leave their homes and families and reside in the red tent, a common space where women circled once a month to share stories and wisdom in a safe space, held by the feminine. Here: spirits rested, wombs shed, space was held and new beginnings created.

And now, in 2020, I have willed the beauty of this back into my own life.

Now, my period represents something totally different. It celebrates what it means, for me, to be female. It’s the time where my yang, feminine energy can be unleashed from her usual state of balance with the yin and empower my energetic body for a four day period. It’s a time of spiritual rest. Characterised by the feminine archetype of the wise, wild woman this is the time where I can retreat, to enjoy being intuitive, connected to a wisdom greater than my own. A period, far from being dirty is a monthly cleanse. A monthly purge. A monthly spring clean. Where my body quite literally gets rid of what no longer serves her only to be reborn every twenty eight days.

This cycle, I’ve been lucky enough to be quarantined at home with a slightly sick fiancé from whom I have to social distance, even when passing him a bowl of soup and homemade egg mayo on garlicky potatoes. Although I’m sharing this space with Rath, I’m currently spending the rest of my time alone. This isn’t so different to how the two of us usually live: quietly, comfortably tending to ourselves in our own spaces and coming out occasionally for chat and a cuddle. Only this time, cuddles are strictly forbidden. Anyway, this brings me to the melting centre of today’s blog.

I’ve had the best period in so long.

I’ve journalled. I’ve watched feminist movies (Wild, Erin Brochovich, Ocean’s 8, Legally Blonde…). I’ve read feminist literature (Intuitive Living, Women who run with the wolves). I’ve done workouts in the fresh air. I’ve sage smudged my room each night and surrendered to the sleep of the monthly cycle: potent and full of dreams. I’ve cooked all my meals from scratch… from homemade granola and kefir for breakfast, to butter chicken and roti for dinner to the hot cacao-maca-turmeric-cinammon-honey-oat drink that I sip in my garden as I write. I’ve massaged coconut oil into my hair and tended to my roots. I’ve rubbed mud masks into my pores and scrubbed out my insecurities. I’ve engulfed whole flasks of warmed water and flushed out pain and hurt.

This has been a time of the most epic rest I could dream of. With each moment that passes, a little more healing seeps into my cells and anxiety shifts to another realm that exists at a lower vibration than the one I’m in. I live slowly. Intentionally. In the Now.

In this beautiful time of the month, I fill my home and lace my womb with fresh flowers that drip all over my essence and leave behind a cave drowned in pure light.

Love,

Gowri x

Published by gowrinair1

Gowri. 26. Doctor. Poet. Writer. Reflections on spirituality, self development & my unique human experience.

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