scarlet's the color of shame, as in 'turned scarlet' and Hawthorne's "Scarlet Letter," but it's also the color of sacrifice, passion, pride and outrage. a color for those who've left the muted shades of careful convention for the ruby-hued interiors of their hearts.
many who are scarlet now were first scarred and scared to be questioned or stand alone. Now we make others blush as we challenge bigotry and speak truth to power with heart's courage.
at 46, the Goddess led me to the northern woods and a women's writing retreat, three years before I could imagine opening like a crocus beneath the spring heat of a wildwoman. i lay on the floor of my writing shed, listening to what is secret and true—the trees' breathing and Loreena McKennitt's ancient celtic songs. outside a birch stood taller and paler than my fear, marked by a long black slash, bark broken, dark with hurt.
I opened my heart and listened to the tree.
She said: "It's okay to be wounded."
none of us, you see, will grow old as the northern woods.
none of us will leave this world without scars left by savage lightning, burrowing pests, floods and droughts.
when our parchment of experience is stained by unforeseen suffering
we do not stand less tall. our leaves grow stiff with tender color and we lean into the humbling wind, the exalting wind, showing ourselves and what life is.
