Claiming the Snakes

Here is a dream:
you are riding in a car
down a dark road
with all the women in your life
your mother
your grandmothers
daughters
sisters
aunties
nieces
friends
ahead there is an accident
and when you pull
over
you see
emerging 
from the wreckage
a deadly
poisonous
snake.
You are 
afraid
but you know 
the snake is a threat 
to your
beloved women
that if you let the danger
go
someone else will be
bitten.
What will you do?
What action will you 
take?
Will you chase the snake,
confront your fear,
grasp it writhing
in your hands?
Will you hold it
even as it bites?
If so
you may find
you are immune to the poison.
If so
you may find
the snake you fear
is wisdom
and the women
of your life
hold a container
to keep the knowing
safe.

This is a dream I actually had six years ago on my daughter's birthday. I have two dots tattooed on the inside of each arm where the snake "bit" me, a reminder that I can--that we all can--face our fears and emerge stronger.

The last six years have challenged me to face fear after fear.  Amid joy, of course.  More than I ever could have imagined.  And the snake bites were important in the journey, a place to pull my attention when my courage was failing.  Sometimes if we can't "do the thing we cannot do" (Eleanor Roosevelt) for ourselves, we can do it for others.  

This year I turned forty and decided it was time to not only remind myself that I was immune to the venom of my fear, but that I could claim whatever caused me pain, claim it as an ally, that wildness.  For the last several years, the snakes came to me, slithering round my arms.  My son took in a ball python, and for hours let the snake show me mystery.

Women and snakes have been equally maligned and aligned through history, as dangerous.

When we claim our danger we heal the rift between ourselves and nature.  When we own our fear, we may embrace what is in equanimity.

The snakes on my arms whisper, "no more hiding."

In this, at least, we are free.