Magdalena

Magdalena

This is no mere gathering of women—
it is a rite of passage, a threshold to a future
already whispering, already waiting,
for us to soften,
to yield to the quiet magic that hums beneath all things.

Magdalena is not a path to perfection,
not a sculpting of the self into some polished goddess,
nor a fragile echo of the sacred feminine’s name.

She does not rise—
for she has never fallen.

She is here, always,
unmoved, omnipotent,
watching as we wander, as we forget.

Magdalena does not barter for HER return,
She does not wait for comfort,
does not seek safety to unfurl.

She is not something to be protected,
not a damsel to be rescued,
not a flickering flame needing shelter
from the winds of a world that does not understand her.

She is not fragile.

Magdalena turns our gaze inward—
to the true power of the feminine:
LIFE itself—
the molten core, the restless tide,
the pulse that never ceases.

She is the howl of wind across barren lands,
the thorn that lifts the rose toward the light,
the raw, uncontainable force of becoming.

She is grief, she is rage, she is rapture—
coursing through flesh and bone,
wild, untamed,
unshackled from the stories of wounds and loss.

She is the breath between death and birth,
the shifting sands, the tide that never clings.

And when the last light dims,
when the oceans still—
when all that was built has turned to dust—

She will remain.

The first green shoot
pushing through the charred, barren earth.

This is HER.

LIFE, renewed.