Feral women trade rules for rituals.

Listen to the language of the bodies. Hear the call of adventure whispered on winds and follow.

They give themselves permission.

Feral women peel off perfectionism and stand patiently exposed.

Blossom from within. As everything in nature does.

Feral women know that the root of "humility" means "close to the earth" and shed their feathers to fall on their knees when necessary.

They draw a line against injustice, love like children, play like animals.

They travel lightly. In packs. And barefoot when possible. Their only home is in their skin and regard it as a worship ground. Scale trees for ripe fruit without avoiding bruises.

Feral women speak from a place just below the navel and speak up even when their voices shake.

They occupy both soul and spirit, shadow and light.

They embrace their impermanent nature and choose not to squander mortality in an effort to keep things fixed and controlled.

They're discerning, pragmatic.

See elegant design and structure in the systems of nature and recreate them in their lives as an act of reverence.

They're wise, intuitive.

See unsustainable design and structure in systems built by man and defy them in sacred rebellion.

They seek out the stories of their grandmothers and keep them close for their daughters. Recount them to each-other to keep our core mythologies supple.

They are paradox.

Both In the moment and on the precipice of pure potential.

They are you, they are us.

Liberated and welcomed home.