I dream of a red tent, a yurt – a circle space of ornate decoration and luxuriant fabrics.Touching the earth, out in the night air. The owls hooting beyond. It is a primitive experience, a tribal memory that I have never had – one which modern day campsites or large festivals awaken but cannot fulfill.
A space where the women can gather. And sing together. And dance – silk scarves flowing in the air. Beating the drums, shaking the rattles as we shimmy our hips.
Lying on soft cushions, drinking tea. Laughing, crying. Colouring mandalas. Reading aloud to each other passages that inspire us. A fire flickering. A voice begins to sing. A sad song, of lost love and yearning. A poem is spoken and
breaths are held.
Candle light, fairy lights, tea lights – soft, gentle, magical. Showing the softness of each face, each body. Their beauty and sensitivity.
Painting bellies, hands and feet with flowing henna designs.
Here we can howl like wolves, dance naked in the moonlight.
And be, just be. Connected, beautiful, complete.