Hand in hand I have leapt over small rivers and climbed hillocks with the beautiful woman, the old and wise yet young and hungry mystical woman inside me, anima. I have called her Vasilisa and En'heduanna and Mary Magdalene... and I have called her Chhinnamasta and Queen Anu, and Christine de Pizan and Saint Hildegard, and Serey Sothea and Yanka Dyagileva, Mira Bai, and Edith and Semiramis and Tomyris... they have all gazed with me from the crenelated terrace out over the steppes! And we have walked out there, down there, in the unexplored and dangerous sub-terrains of fiery human passion…
Did not Lalleshwari, ferocious Lal Ded, the wolfess in the shroud of a woman, tear the modest rags off her body and give her away thoughtlessly to the burning woodlands, the nigrescent horizon, the terror of the unknown, having renounced the fixed marriage of her honor-obsessive family, having suffered under patriarchal suppression like a some hound, having warded off beatings and attacks of sexual desecration and attempts of such, since childhood? Did not En'heduanna, the high priestess cry and wail at the thought and sight of Lugalbanda destroying her temple at Ur? Or Edith, the southern spruce alone in a forest of the bittermost firs, how she fought off the imps of disease and scathing critique with the diamond shield and sword of poetry, stubbornly, passionately... as did Lakhsmibai with her imperialist invaders! And so shall I, with the power of the spirit of Queen Anu!
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