Bleeding Body

I wrote this a few moon cycles ago when my bleeding body and the institution were having some tension. This month I have the privilege of getting to stay in bed and just be with my bleeding body and feeling heart (and bleeding heart and feeling body) And, this still feels relevant:

The moon is full and my body is bleeding and it's week two of spring semester and day 1 of a weeklong M-F 9-5 intensive. Im a year and a half in to this experiment that is theological seminary/grad school and this week has felt like a microcosm for what the last year and a half of MDiv life has been like- filled with contradiction, complexity, clarity, hypocrisy, expansion, relationship, existential confusion, existential center. God everywhere. Amnesia everywhere too. 

Today was one of those days of feeling my body in the institution. Feeling the pain of white supremacy and Christian hegemony and the multi-realities of my ancestors and the wisdom and presence of my bleeding body and her refusal to conform or fit. Some days I can go through the motions and I get why I’m here. Other days, all the God talk is confusing and redundant and painfully elitist as the world’s body that is Goddess herself moans and bleeds and screams for us to remember our entanglement yesterday for fucks sake. Today is a bleeding day. 

And my bleeding body is timeless chaos and primordial knowing and has zero tolerance for bullshit or toxic masculinity. My bleeding body rejects authority and hierarchal presumptions of right and wrong and just Is. my bleeding body is older and wiser than any book and seeks only to please my ancestors and feed the hungry fire that burns in my belly, longing for union. My bleeding body remembers that I am dying and being reborn every second and words are meaningless and boring. My bleeding body is messy and refuses to be confined, defined or understood- my bleeding body is paradox and is fed by raw presence , tears, sunshine and primal sound. My bleeding body aches for the full moon and worships the trees. My bleeding body prefers not to talk. She says Yes and No when necessary, writes poetry and moves slow and low to the Beloveds song. 

My bleeding body is the grandmothers mirror. Reflecting the unsustainable speed and greed of this exploitative empirical dream.

My bleeding body speaks in tongues the academy has deemed extinct and is alone with God and breathing with all of Life. My bleeding body is quiet and raging, deep and unfathomably vast- a mysterious world filled with life and color and darkness, ever changing and unquantifiable, like the Great Ocean Mother. 

- Written week of February 18th @ “Holy Hill” in Berkeley , CA


Yael Schonzeit