This very moment my uterus is shrinking. So slowly to be imperceptible, yet, yes. She is declining in her size. No longer fertile on a physical plane, her energy is becoming more subtle and fluid. The wisewoman nectar that is not lost in blood each month returns, instead, returns to enhance my ability to give birth to myself, be it through words, planting my garden, cooking for my family, or gentle, peaceful caress.
Sometimes this transformation heats me with its flame. The physical is slowly consumed and the subtle is expanding, billowing. Will it kill me? Will I eventually disappear in this blaze? Of course. Yet what a fire works display I might reveal in the meanwhile.
Create I must and carefully choose it--elsewise that nectar can as equally create a sour and bitter old lady, regretful of the past, depressed in the present and empty of future. Just as I chose to give birth or abort my physical babies I now must take responsibility for this creative power on an even deeper level. Yes, I must continue to choose.
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