When Spirit called, I answered. I didn’t know that hello to me meant goodbye… to him.

Us, the Dear John writers, who’ve bared our souls in scrawls of ink on empty sheets of “so long” papers. We, who’ve leaped into the abyss of the unknown, because the paralysis of expectation was too painful to endure — for even a moment longer. This is an invitation to the women who leave. Because we wanted more…

To thrive. To overcome. To recover. This is for every one of us.

The apple-biters, way-seekers, truth-dwellers, dragon-riders, daughters of Lilith. The women who’ve tasted truth and thirst for more. The Rebella: beautiful rebels who crave a life that’s transcendent. A delicious spaghetti-messy experience where every step of the way is a journey of joy.

Magick with a K. Who revel in their perfuction.

The well-fucked women. Who deals in pleasure that sends tingles down her spine, out through wiggling toes, over creased sheets, on a Monday.

Who celebrate Sunday, because every day is a reason to celebrate aliveness. A revealing, revelation, and revolution of the human experience — pleasure and pain inextricably bound together.

Women who delight in their senses, follow their heart’s intuition and embrace in ecstasy and agony of this human incarnation. Who celebrates the moment that is, and all the possibilities it contains.

Who doesn’t “Please, sir,” beg for more, but take what’s theirs, knowing there’s enough for everyone. And in her darkness, her rebirth as a free woman. Her light, to light up thousands more. She has her cake and shares it. Inclusive, integrated unity.

Women who lust for an indulgent life, and embrace their “irrationality”. Their too-much-ness, their crazy, their truth. Women who will no longer keep silent. Who’ve broken the chains of patriarchy — too tight for too long. Women who’ve released themselves from suppression, subservience, and supervision.

Granddaughters of the phoenix witches. Wave-riders of change. Who’s shed their skin again and again. Untangling, un-attaching, freeing themselves as they grow. Ever-expanding into heart space. Into undefined relation-shapes. Women who will leave and leave and leave. Because their love isn’t bound by the constraints of fixed time and place and people.

Women who don’t do the right thing, because by their sheer existence, by being here right now, they’ve realized, I am, as is now, and now is ever-changing.

The women of conscious choice and intentional doings who live life on purpose, actively participating in the creation of their unfolding lives, in layers and layers, from intention to manifestation.

Alchemists, who’ve transformed the lead of their rigid pasts to the golden liberation of their future.

Their freedom from fear is wholeheartedly expressed through their every vibration. Through the frequency of their principle. Through the iridescent moon-sparkle in the liquid of their eyes.

New narratives for the women who leave. No conclusion: happily ever after, because once upon a time, she left. The heroine’s journey doesn’t start in the comfort of complacency. The suffocation of suburban sameness. The “And this is how it goes” on and on, stuck record, cut short. Replaced with a new song. A story called Bliss. Unique to each her own. From fixed to fluid. From routine structure to expressive dance.

Leave, women, and open the door to yourselves. To the whole wide world that awaits you, internally.

Do you hear that beat?

Will you feel your itchy feet?

They want to move, it’s time to soar,

Leave the limitation of lack to a life filled with more…

To the rising, wild, wolf-women who leave, listen, this is your call,

She recovers her truth when she returns to her core.

Remembering her way home.

Tick Tock — time beats to her heart’s clock.

The time is now to leave the past, the then,

She’s called to discover again and again,

This is the reclamation of She, Becoming, Eve, Lilith, Witch, Phoenix to Me.

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