There’s a fire rising higher and higher in me and it speaks of discontentment; tells me I want so much more. It’s the hot tongue of that pitta flame I invoked, to make me stronger in my doshas, yet it can’t switch on without the wanting of more…which is what drives it onwards, upwards, stretching, reaching-out to a place beyond. A place half-glimpsed through the mists that I know I want to be, so one without the other…not possible, which means I know I need this want, but it rattles my vata bones, makes my dryness react like irritated skin on a very hot day. So we ebb and flow back and forth; yet I’ve never felt more like going with the forward motion of wanting, hurt though it does. My own discontentment seems to eat me, eat at my life; there’s no settling any more, frustration bites at my heels. Like a cat on a hot tin roof, I hop from foot to foot, barely knowing what I want but wanting something.

This thing was always there, I realise; only it was holed up in a prison cell of sorts, like a wild animal in a cage in my dungeon. So all the time I was telling myself that I’m being ever-so humble, grateful and contented I was really wanting more than I ever said. For many women, it comes up like a guilty secret to start with and then you realise that all the little things were only ever attached to the bigger things; wanting more for the planet, for its people, for it all…especially the earth, that love of your life.

How many females do this thing, caging up the lioness of wanting, only ever letting it appear as want for others or for trivia, meaningless fripperies and the distraction of sparkly things on the journey of life when really we carry this BIG want, this mighty universal want for everything in creation. How many dress it up in religious or pseudo-spiritual terms when we say we want for nothing, are grateful for everything we have. It’s not wrong, that gratitude; it grew us more of what we wanted efficiently if slowly. But by keeping wanting so spiritually out of vogue we only kept our power under lock and key and then self-guarded what was rightfully ours to express; how ironic. We did the work of those who would keep us smaller and we jumped at every sign of an escape.

Is this why women react so at that immense fiery heat of the middle years; why we round it up and pillion the first signs of our first fire-awakening, suppressing and fighting it with a male-devised arsenal of drugs and therapies, making it so wrong. I long-ago reconciled that this woman-heat is far from wrong but, rather, the heat of transformation, the fire to my phoenix but did I really think it came without longing, without this upwards strive that feels as though you might punch through whatever stands in your way and whatever feels most unfair or destructive in this world. Not literally punch but by unleashing the cataclysm of woman-rage, the kind that had us labelled as dragons and pierced to the ground by men with long swords who claimed to rescue the demure and swooning maiden in us; saved from ourselves, they said. “Swoon no more” my inner goddess screams through the wild-eyed flames of my kundalini rising as I stick out my tongue and roar my way to the start of another feisty, fiery day. “Smoulder no more”, my body says as it shakes off the simmering un-health that keeps inverse heat trapped in my base. And so I fan my own flames, not yet knowing what it is that I really want but owning that I am open to finding out. Its this unleashed wanting of women that is set to transform this world.

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