Sacred eternal feminine rising

03/03/2026

02/03/2026

We are living in a time when power feels performative, reactive, hungry for dominance. Titles are confused with wisdom. Volume is mistaken for authority. Truth is bent to fit ego.

A council of grandmothers represents something entirely different. Not nostalgia, but leadership shaped by memory and consequence, by the lived understanding that every decision ripples forward into bodies and soil and children not yet born.

Grandmothers know what survives and what collapses. They understand the cost of pride. They recognize how fragile ecosystems are, how fragile trust is, how quickly harm multiplies when accountability disappears.

This longing is not about replacing one hierarchy with another. It is about craving continuity instead of conquest. But it is also more personal than politics.

For generations, matriarchal wisdom was buried, dismissed, burned, institutionalized, rewritten. The brilliance of women who understood land, cycles, conflict, healing, governance, and restraint was treated as threat instead of inheritance. Their knowing did not vanish. It went underground.

We feel the absence because the memory still lives in us.
Looking to the matrilineal line is not regression. It is reclamation. Discernment runs in our blood. Authority does not have to dominate to be real.

Perhaps what we are aching for is not only governance shaped by those who remember. Perhaps we are being asked to become what we were denied.
꩜ Ella

02/03/2026

Anput is rarely spoken of but she stands at the edge of the same threshold as Anubis.

In ancient Egyptian belief, Anput is the female counterpart to Anubis. A jackal-headed goddess associated with mummification, funerary rites, and protection of the dead. Where Anubis guides, Anput guards.

She is not spectacle.

She is presence.

While Anubis weighs the heart, Anput represents the protective feminine force within death rituals. The one who ensures the body is prepared correctly. The one who stands watch over transition. The one who keeps the boundary intact.

Her name simply means “the feminine Anubis,” but that simplicity hides depth.

She embodies containment.

Death in Egyptian cosmology was not chaos. It was passage. Structured. Measured. Sacred. Anput represents the maternal force within that passage the guardian who ensures nothing corrupts the journey.

The jackal is not random symbolism. Jackals were seen near burial grounds, existing between desert and settlement. They were creatures of liminality. Of edges. Of dusk.

Anput holds that same energy.

She is not there to frighten.

She is there to maintain order where fear would otherwise unravel it.

There is something powerful about a feminine archetype that does not romanticize light. That does not flee shadow. That understands that endings are part of the rhythm of existence.

Anput does not chase the living.

She stands where the veil thins.

Calm. Watching. Ensuring that even in death, there is dignity.

Because transition is sacred.

And someone must guard it.

02/03/2026

Amphitrite is often remembered only as Poseidon’s wife.

But before she was queen of the sea, she was a Nereid one of the fifty daughters of Nereus and Doris. A sea nymph of calm waters, not chaos. When Poseidon pursued her, she fled. It was only after negotiation and the intervention of a dolphin that she agreed to become his consort.

That detail matters.

She was not conquered.

She chose.

As Queen of the Sea, Amphitrite does not embody the crashing wave or the violent storm. That is Poseidon’s domain. She represents the deeper current the vast, steady, ancient body of water beneath surface turbulence.

She is rarely dramatized in myth. Rarely scandalized. Rarely accused. She does not chase spectacle.

She stabilizes.

In iconography, she is crowned with sea creatures, seated beside Poseidon, equal in throne even if not equal in storytelling. The ocean is not only tempest and fury. It is also depth. Pressure. Silence.

Amphitrite embodies contained power.

The kind that does not need to roar to be felt.

She teaches that not all authority is loud. Not all queens demand attention. Some govern through presence. Through gravity. Through depth that few are capable of reaching.

The sea floor holds shipwrecks and secrets. It holds history. It holds what storms cannot uproot.

Amphitrite represents the feminine that is not interested in being the wave.

She is the water itself.

Calm on the surface.
Unfathomable beneath.

And there is something far more intimidating about quiet depth than there is about noise.

02/03/2026

02/03/2026

02/03/2026

Oya is the Orisha of wind, lightning, and violent transformation.

In the Yoruba tradition, she is the guardian of the cemetery gates, the mistress of storms, the force that sweeps through and alters landscapes in a single breath. She is movement. She is upheaval. She is the breath before the lightning strikes.

She is often depicted with a machete or sword, cutting through illusion. She is adorned in flowing garments or nine scarves symbolising her connection to the nine tributaries of the Niger River and her association with the sacred number nine. She moves fast. She speaks in thunder.

And she does not ask permission.

Oya is deeply linked to death, not as stillness, but as transition. She rules the winds that carry spirits between realms. She stands at the threshold of the cemetery, not as something to fear, but as something to respect.

Because nothing transforms without disruption.

Through a dark feminine lens, Oya is sacred chaos but not mindless destruction. She is strategic upheaval. She clears what has stagnated. She uproots what has rotted. She shatters false foundations so something stronger can be built.

When Oya enters your life, it rarely feels gentle.

Relationships collapse.
Identities fracture.
Comfort zones explode.

But what she removes was already unstable.

Oya teaches that transformation is rarely soft. It is loud. It is inconvenient. It is undeniable.

She is the embodiment of change you cannot negotiate with.

And yet, she is also fiercely protective of those who honor her. She defends her devotees with the same intensity she wields against stagnation.

Oya reminds us:

If you want rebirth, you must survive the storm.
If you want power, you must release control.
If you want evolution, you must let something die.

She is not here to comfort you.
She is here to move you.

02/03/2026

On this day, 28 February 1972, the trial of prominent Black communist Angela Davis for murder, kidnapping and conspiracy began in San Jose, California.
The trial resulted from a courtroom shootout in 1970 in which four people were killed. Davis had purchased some of the fi****ms used in the incident, which resulted in the deaths of Black Panthers Jonathan Jackson, William Christmas and James McClain, as well as judge Harold Haley.
Davis was not present at the scene, and she declared herself innocent of all charges. By the time the trial had begun, nearly 300 groups had sprung up around the world supporting her and working for her freedom, and John Lennon and Yoko Ono contributed the song "Angela" to the campaign.
Angela Davis had a team of experienced lawyers, but she delivered her opening defence address herself. The defence demolished the prosecution's case, and eventually on 4 June, the all-white jury came back with not-guilty verdicts on all charges.
In this collection of writings, Davis tells the story of her incarceration, and of prison in the US more generally: https://shop.workingclasshistory.com/collections/black-history/products/if-they-come-in-the-morning-angela-davis

28/02/2026

She signed her name to a living will.
She knew the bus might be her grave.

1961.
May 28, 1961.
Jackson, Mississippi.
Frances Wilson was 23 years old.

A student at Tennessee State University. A believer in justice. A young woman with everything to lose.

That spring, the Freedom Rides were in trouble. Buses were being bombed. Protesters were being beaten by mobs.

Frances didn't hide. She stepped up.

She boarded a Greyhound bus in Nashville. She rode into the heart of the deep South to challenge laws that said Black and white people couldn't sit together.

When the bus stopped in Jackson, she didn't hesitate. She walked straight into the "Whites Only" waiting room.

She was arrested instantly.

A judge found her guilty of "breach of the peace." He gave her a choice: pay a fine or go to jail.

She chose jail.

She was sent to Parchman Penitentiary, one of the most dangerous prisons in the country. Her cell was so close to the death chamber she could see the electric chair.

She stayed there for weeks. When she was finally released, she went back to her university.
But her school did not welcome her back. They expelled her and 13 other students for their activism.

She was forced to go home, her education stolen because she fought for her rights.
It took nearly 50 years for the world to say sorry.

In 2008, Tennessee State University finally gave Frances and the others their degrees.
She was a student who became a soldier for peace.

They took her desk.
They couldn't take her dignity.
Frances Wilson.
1961.

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#1961