The Sacred Feminine

A love so extreme it appears obscene.

Medieval Catholic mystics stared wide-eyed at places more timid eyes fear to gaze.

Women seem to have been more keenly aware of where to look.

Julian of Norwich, and Catherine of Siena both lingered on the side wound of Christ and saw not gore, but a doorway. A sacred opening. A womb. The lance opens Him and blood and water spill forth, the same fluids that accompany birth. Agony interlaced with mercy, pain inseparable from love. Life only comes through tearing flesh. One way or another. The yonic symbol is the female counter part to the male phallus

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The faithful once understood something we’ve trained ourselves to forget. That the female body is the original altar. In childbirth, a woman’s flesh is split open so that another may live more fully than it ever could in the dark safety of the womb. Pain is not punishment here, it is passage. Sacrifice is not death, it gives birth to life. A microcosmic reenactment of the original act of creation. Creation screams its way into existence.

A woman giving birth is not merely producing a child, she is reenacting the primordial event itself. In the beginning, before stars and star-stuff, there was compression. Density. A terrible, holy pressure. “Let there be…” was not whispered into a vacuum, it was ripped out of nothingness. Light split darkness the way a body splits to make room for life.

Labor mirrors that first cosmological convulsion. The womb, like the pre-cosmic void, is enclosed and without light. Once the contractions begin, time thickens. Order destabilizes into controlled chaos. Pain is the signal that a closed system is being brutally forced open.

In birth, the woman becomes the universe mid-creation. Space stretching beyond its limits, matter rearranging under unbearable pressure, blood and water stain the threshold between worlds. The child passes from a sealed micro-cosmos into air and potential, just as light once erupted from darkness. The mother’s cry and the baby’s wail echoes the first rupture of being itself, the sound of existence insisting on more existence.

This is why ancient cultures understood birth as sacred terror. Not sentimental. It is chaos cooperating with love. Meaning married to suffering.

There are no stars without collapse. No galaxies without ultra-violence. No consciousness without agony.

Every birth is a Big Bang downsized to flesh.
Every mother is the site where nothing becomes something.
And every new life arrives the same way the universe did,
through a wound that says “hope.”

The Sacred Feminine is not a cause, not a costume, not a goddess cosplay, it is a cosmic function. It is the generative principle of Nature herself. The capacity to bring forth, to nurture, to sustain life. When the Divine Feminine is suppressed, inverted, or mocked, harmony is violated, and society spirals. The feminine principle is what cares for the effects of actions. It is conscience embodied. It is empathy anchored in consequence. I think that this good and pure female instinct has been hijacked by evil forces in our era.

(But fleshing that out that requires a new post. Or a book!)

Masculine force initiates, but feminine wisdom determines whether that force becomes creation or destruction. Perhaps this is also why the modern world is obsessed with sterilizing birth, destroying fertility, making it optional or undesirable, claiming that a man can have a baby. A man cloaked in a ghoulish and garish lady-skin is no woman. Sorry. We degrade the Sacred Feminine at our collective peril.

The Church is born from a torture device, a cross, not a throne.

From a wound.

Souls emerge not from command, but from consent to suffering.

The five wounds of Jesus were once symbolized by the five-sided star. The Satanists inverted the star into a pentagram. They turned it upside down to mock God. Inversion is always the tell. The parasite cannot create, it can only reverse.

Those wild-eyed medieval mystics knew that God saves the world not through domination, but through being opened.

Through bleeding.

Through love so extreme it looks obscene to the timid.

A mother’s love.